Work Text:
Sometimes, Manjiro couldn’t hear.
When did it begin? A long time ago, probably. Sounds muffled, the grating ambience of dirt being shoveled murmured. The shovel clinked. One last scoop was made, and the hole they burrowed by the shrine’s tree was fully filled. Surrounding the now buried time capsule, everyone around Manjiro laughed and grinned and cheered. The promise of “twelve years from now” was sealed.
Manjiro wandered back home. Soon after, Takemitchy would be gone. In his place would be his present-self, and Takemitchy—Hanagaki Takemichi—would be able to live his life without loneliness. Takemitchy would wake up surrounded by people who loved him, and Manjiro swore to protect those twelve years.
Hair now cut, blonde bangs hung by his ears. A coward brought a knife to the brawl and swiped a bit too close to comfort, golden locks chopped before an instinctive fist was brought to the jaw. He could not hear the impact, nor feel the vibrations of his knuckles hitting bone, but long hair was not a bother. The risk of getting grabbed by the head was higher, but it never served as a problem to the Invincible Mikey.
It was a pity, however. He glanced down at the strands pooling by his sandals.
Might as well fashion a new style.
Sometimes, he could feel the darkness ebb. Other times, he regretted giving it a mental image. Perhaps the undefeatable leader would be able to defeat the darkness should it have been a physical entity, but hovering around his shoulders (and bitterly, awfully, untouchable) was the version of himself that Manjiro hated. It was still himself , however. Manjiro could not do anything about it.
So he lived with it.
Age twenty three. There were only shards of sanity left. Walking under this morning city sky, abysmal eyes closed. Light sank in from thin eyelids. The blue world turned into bright reds.
Twenty three…. And in another year. Twenty four. Twenty five. Twenty six.
Twenty seven.
He opened his eyes.
“Eh? Mikey?”
Manjiro’s heart froze.
In front of him. Hair black, with unruly curls.
Blue eyes.
Hanagaki Takemichi stood before him, in the middle of the busy, pedestrian-packed road.
“Mikey!” Twenty two year old Hanagaki smiled. “It’s been so long!!”
Sano Manjiro stood frozen.
From where they stood, sunlight hit Hanagaki as if it were a veil for a wedded Emma. The ends of charcoal hair shone with strands of gold.
The present-time Hanagaki.
Oh.
Oh, Manjiro should be leaving.
He shouldn’t stay here. He needed to leave—
Hanagaki Takemichi was not walking away. He greeted Manjiro, a sheepish smile on his lips, and then rambled on and on about how everyone was doing (not that Manjiro didn’t know. Even though Manjiro cut himself out of all of their lives, he still kept tabs on their wellbeing. One day, he’d cut himself out entirely). He kept talking without stopping, reminiscing and grinning, and then….
“Oh! By the way, Mikey,” a glimmer sparked in Hanagaki’s blue eyes, “are you busy this month?”
Manjiro started.
When did the conversation go over there? But by the time Manjiro realized, he was already shaking his head—
What?
Huh?
Stop it. What—
Blue eyes turned brighter.
“Wanna go skydiving with me?”
Manjiro stared blankly ahead.
Hanagaki made an embarrassed laugh.
“See, I’m on a break... but it’s a personal one. Everyone else’s busy, Hina just got an offer for a volunteer opportunity, and, well. Going skydiving alone would be a little lonely… but then you’re here!! It’s been so long, seriously! What do you think, Mikey?”
He didn’t know what possessed him, but the shorter found himself nodding.
There was some sort of spell casted on him, Manjiro realized. He wasn’t able to catch his mistake before witnessing how radiant Hanagaki visibly glowed.
No, no. Stop.
“Cool! I’ll make some reservations, hold on. Oh yeah, can I have your contact info or something? Since you know, your old one….” He gestured.
Manjiro, still possessed, slowly handed over one of his burner phones. Hanagaki happily recorded the number into his device.
That was when Bonten’s leader finally said something. His voice sounded strange to his own ears.
“Do you even have the money?” Hanagaki was living alone now, he recalled. Between rent, part time jobs and university….
“Oh, I saved up so it’s okay. I’ll pay for you, too,” Hanagaki smiled.
Right.
Manjiro was truly on his last few shards of reason. By the time he realized (once more), the young adult found himself at Kawajima’s skydiving club.
Age twenty three.
The world spun at his feet.
“Mikey, have you gone skydiving before?”
“... No.”
“I see! I’ve always wanted to try it out, it’s really exciting!”
“Mn.”
The procedures were gone through. Checking their weight, IDs were passed—Manjiro’s fully forged. He was a wanted criminal. Out of his whim, some easy strings were pulled.
Age twenty three.
The darkness ebbed again. Putting him in choke hold, it grabbed his neck.
Whispered threats.
About twenty to thirty kilograms of equipment was attached. The staff went through the entire procedure again, Hanagaki listening and asking questions whenever necessary.
He was very attentive about it. Manjiro stayed quiet.
Age twenty three. They were now on the plane.
As the altitude got higher, Manjiro peered out of the window. The glass reflected his own face, lightless eyes staring back at him.
They got higher than the clouds, now. It was all foggy with mist.
“Ah…. Now that we’re high up here, I’m getting the chills,” Hanagaki made a shaky expression. Queasy, his fists were clenched. The instructor smiled and told a joke. Making an uneasy laugh, Hanagaki said a “thank you.”
Manjiro didn’t pay attention. He stared at the floor.
The darkness whispered again.
…
Manjiro tried explaining.
He was just hanging out with a ghost. A ghost in four more years. This, whatever this was, would vanish from everyone’s reality. Manjiro could always silence the staff, but it wasn’t like Takemitchy would go skydiving.
Takemitchy wouldn’t need to know. This was just Hanagaki Takemichi’s random whim. The present Hanagaki who would disappear, him and his memories and twelve years.
Yes.
That was right.
“Hey, Mikey?”
The door slid open. Manjiro’s eyes barely flickered up.
“When you skydive,” Hanagaki and his skydiving helper leaned towards the open air. With a thoughtful look on the younger’s face, Hanagaki let go of a light chuckle.
“Apparently, you’ll be able to see everything.
“But won’t have to think of anything.”
There was a rush of wind. Hanagaki dropped down.
A dead gaze stared after him. He tracked how his silhouette faded into the clouds.
“It’s our turn, now,” someone said behind him.
Oddly enough, it didn’t sound like the staff in charge of helping Manjiro. He nearly turned his head, but before he could do that—
Oh.
He fell.
They were falling. Falling and falling and falling. Taken off guard by this strange, unknown pressure, Manjiro’s usually inanimate eyes blew wide. They widened, involuntarily—
A gasp escaped Manjiro’s lips. Muscles couldn’t help but tense. There was no where for his limbs to anchor at. He was a fighter, he didn’t like this—
Ah—
They were falling. Falling.
Falling.
He couldn’t see where Hanagaki was. Eyelids fluttering, his throat tightened up—hard to breathe—
Sano Manjiro wanted to ask himself:
Why did he come here in the first place?
Is your resolve this weak?
Sano Manjiro, the Invincible Mikey?
Something wet trailed up from the corners of his eyes. Trying to turn, a wide, empty gaze searched around. Hanagaki had leapt first, so Manjiro wasn’t sure—
Behind those transparent goggles, blue orbs were watering.
It was for a split second. Manjiro’s eyes met with the other’s.
Wind beat at his ears. At this point, it was hard to hear. He was everywhere and nowhere at the same time, this strange sense of zero gravity tearing the nonexistent sweat from pale skin.
Wind continued to beat. Even so, he heard it:
Takemichi’s laugh.
Takemichi… was laughing.
Squealing, a high-pitched, watering cry. The laugh continued. Manjiro watched as the other spread his arms and legs—open like wings, hands relaxed.
Something welled up in the gut.
They continued to fall.
And fall.
And fall.
And fall.
Even though there were other people—the skydiving instructors who were tied to their backs—it felt as if they were alone. Just the two of them, and then the paradise that stretched below.
Takemichi laughed again. Manjiro could barely hear him over the wind. At the same time, his laugh was so loud—
A smile cracked open.
Manjiro wasn’t sure why he was smiling.
But then—
He laughed.
A laugh left Manjiro’s throat. It seeped out, unsuspecting and without warning.
He laughed again.
Relaxing his muscles, the blonde haired man let the wind crash against him. He let his arms and legs spread, just as Takemichi did.
The thoughts went away. They flew out of his head, one by one.
Falling.
Falling.
Falling.
And falling.
And then, the parachute lifted.
Fu-wump—air rushed. Manjiro gasped again. His stomach made a flip, the sudden pull tugging on his body—
They were hanging there, floating.
Floating.
Floating.
… Floating.
The man behind him was saying something. A pull on the rope later, they began drifting off to the right. Pull on both arms—the parachute changed angles. They hovered again. Now it was only Manjiro holding the ropes. The instructor gave him the wheels.
Despite being given the wheels, however, rough fingers only hooked weakly on the hoops. They floated. Floated. Floated.
He could see everything. Hair damp, dark eyes gazed on.
Tokyo, the land below him. Kanto.
At some point, the instructor took back the ropes. They continued to float. Legs hanging, Manjiro waited.
And waited.
“Mikey!!” Manjiro caught Takemichi’s yell. Turning, he spotted the pudding haired man.
He saw how the other was laughing so brightly, sunlight shining down from the parted fog.
“One day!!” Hanagaki Takemichi hollered.
“Let’s do this!! Again!!!”
They were walking down the streets with an awkward distance between them before Takemichi started talking.
Almost flippant, he spoke nonchalantly.
“I want you to scold me, like how my bro would have.”
Manjiro nearly flinched.
“You said that to me before, right?”
They stopped walking.
Manjiro wasn’t sure if he should look up and meet the other’s eyes. His mind wanted to race. All lodged up, he struggled to think of a word.
But then—it was probably pointless. Deciding to just let it go, Manjiro settled with breathing.
A gentle pause later, Takemichi continued.
“Maybe it’s cuz we have the same brain, but just faintly…. Sometimes, I’d have this sense of deja vu.”
He awkwardly scratched the back of his ear. Then, he smiled.
“Mikey. Give me your hand?”
The spell hadn’t gotten released. Even so, he only raised his hand a few centimeters away from his side. Takemichi accepted the gesture, however. Digging into his bag, the young adult took something out before pressing the object into Manjiro’s hand.
Takemichi lifted his own away. On the top of Manjiro’s palm… an old iPod model.
“I want you to keep it. I’m not my future-self,” and you’ve drifted away , was left unsaid, “but at the very least, I want you to have this.”
A smile formed once more.
“Let’s go skydiving together again, Mikey.”
When they parted ways, Manjiro stifled the urge to look back.
Manjiro kept walking.
Takemichi didn’t turn back, too.
His room was dark.
Walking barefoot to the bed, he lied down. IPod resting by his head, slowly, the young adult grabbed the earbuds and pushed it in place. They were cold, plastic pressed against his ears. Turning on the device, empty eyes glanced down. Only fifteen songs. The last one was nameless.
Holding down “play,” he let his eyes close. Sinking deeper into the mattress, he listened.
The muffled sounds slowly broke away.
Most of the songs were instrumentals. With the lack of words, there was nothing to think about.
A variety, but mostly calming.
Manjiro listened.
At some point, there was this strumming of a guitar. It was rough around the edges—a live recording—and the tune itself wavered plenty.
Manjiro listened.
He listened, embracing each stumble of the thumb, each faltering note that was picked up with an odd-sounding chord. The tune itself was akin to waves, something you’d hear at the afternoon beaches—almost mellow, kind of sad. Accepting. His hands twitched. Reminiscent of his old terry-cloth, calloused fingers twisted the end of his shirt. The feeling and texture wasn’t the same, but that was… okay. That was alright.
He listened.
Age twenty three. He was as old as Shinichiro, now.
For once, breath light and lips slightly parted, the mirage of a four year old allowed himself to be lulled into a rare slumber.
For once, Manjiro slept, his chest the slightest lighter.