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HARUKI
Haruki Atou feels like he’s walking at the edge of the world.
Snow muffles the sharp crunch of his footsteps. Across the mountain paths, flurries begin to fall: a relentless assault. A brilliant barrage of endless, blinding white. It obscures the senses, burying his footsteps without a trace. A morbid, fleeting thought assails him: if he fell here, only the distant stars would bear witness to his cooling corpse.
He finds himself in a puffy coat, soft as clouds and warm as wool. It’s the one he stuffed at the back of his closet years ago, after he’d outgrown the garment — largely for its unflattering appearance.
His grandmother had bought it as a Christmas gift, see, and he hadn’t the heart to refuse her sparkling eyes. That expectant smile. So Haruki would drag himself to the bus stop, day by day, feeling rather stupid — but never, ever cold.
Rui would always tease him for it. Sure, his voice was flat as ever… but his eyes would always gleam with a quiet mirth. Haruki. As your best friend, it’s my duty to keep you informed: you look like a marshmallow in midwinter.
Rui. Haruki would sigh, resisting the urge to bury his face in his hands. Tell me something I don’t know, please. Better yet — stop reminding me, or I’m banning you from melonpan privileges for a week.
The scarf Granny knitted for him’s settled around his shoulders. There’s little sprouts stitched into the fluffy fabric, a callback to his closest companions as a child. … It brings back a fond and familiar warmth. It smells faintly of the oranges she’d pluck from the mandarin tree by his bedroom window, bright and sweet as September sunlight.
It feels like armor against the mountain air. Like gauntlets made to guard him from the snap and snarl of the wind, a radiant lantern to guide him through the flurries and the fog. After all, those relentless gales are gentle as a butcher’s knife — raised high above his head, they’re an executioner’s blade threatening to pierce through his comforting layers.
Still, that vicious wind is sweetened with the rich blood of pine sap. Carrying the heady perfume of woodsmoke, it brings to Haruki’s ears a familiar, maniacal mirth. He’d know that unhinged laughter anywhere — even if he couldn’t see the source.
Even as solid earth begins to crumble like sand beneath his soles — even as snowbanks begin to melt before his eyes like magic — the dream is already shifting to accommodate this new, uninvited guest. Ripples form on the water: materializing before Haruki’s disbelieving eyes, beneath his unsteady feet, below the solid vessel he suddenly finds himself seated in.
Vertigo sends the world spinning. As Haruki waits for the world to settle, he begins to count.
One, two, three. He adjusts to being seated, steadied by the gentle swaying of the canoe. Four, five, six. It soothes him, the way a cradle’s back-and-forth calms a crying child. Seven, eight, nine. The boat’s being ferried through iridescent waters. A dazzling aurora’s reflected in their crystalline depths, colors dancing merrily before his eyes.
And — most importantly, he takes note of the captain of this motley crew. Whoever’s commandeering this two-person craft has a blood-stained lab coat, steering around ice floes with uncharacteristic silence.
Ah, Haruki groans. Half-exasperated, half-fond. You’ve got to be kidding me. I can’t escape this bastard — not even in my dreams.
“Am I dead?” Haruki blurts out. He feels like a fool for saying it, but he can’t help but wonder.
(Seeing Kanou again inspires a thousand emotions. Within his mind, they’re waging war. Clashing blades in conflict, there’s a familiar ache. It echoes through all the chambers of his heart — along with a weight on his shoulders he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying, suddenly lifted.
He feels weightless, breathless with relief. I’m happy. What a relief it is, to see you smiling again. Breathing, instead of bleeding out. So very alive.
Haruki says none of this, of course. Instead, he smiles. Kanou would tease him to no end if he’d voiced such sappy sentiments. Kanou always loved to shatter his facade of stone-cold solemnity, after all — be it through shameless flirting, or tasteless remarks.)
Where is this, exactly? A realm suspended between the living and the dead, or simply a half-baked fantasy conjured up by his mind? He wants to think it’s a world where his path can cross with Kanou again, a world where he can finally give him a proper goodbye.
Kanou’s eyes narrow, unamused. His grip tightens on the oars, and Haruki briefly weighs the pros and cons of going for a swim. “Not even a hello for Kanou-san? Tsk, tsk, Aso-chan. I thought you were raised better than this.”
“… Sorry.” Haruki toys with the end of his scarf. It brings to mind their final meeting, before the elevator. The gunmetal gleam in Kanou’s eyes, the razor-sharp edge to his smile. “Or rather — it’s nice to see you again, Kanou-san. Even if this is just a dream. And… I want to tell you something, since I never got the chance back then.”
The tension in Kanou’s shoulders loosens when he laughs. … What a relief. Haruki found him easier to deal with when smiling. In fact, he preferred Kanou smiling rather than seething; he rather disliked Kanou’s pretenses at ruthlessness.
(That awful, self-deprecating facade — hastily thrown up to protect himself, even if it was falling apart at the seams… Really, Haruki would be happy if he never saw Kanou like that again.)
Irritation’s wiped from Kanou’s features in seconds, replaced with easy mirth. “Aha, it’s been a while, hasn’t it!”
Kanou leans forward in anticipation. His eyes are bluer than Haruki had expected — something like sea glass, except sharper: shards spilling across the kitchen floor. Beautiful at first glance, but with a hidden ruthlessness. Razor-edged enough to wound, lashing out in the face of vulnerability.
Kanou’s close enough that Haruki can feel the weight of his wide-eyed gaze, burning like a bonfire at full force. Seriously, this man. No regard for personal space whatsoever.
“And — what’s this? Guinea Pig-kun, is this a confession? ♡”
Haruki tries leaning back. Unfortunate, then, that there’s only so much room in a canoe for him to run. Surrounded by ice-cold water on all sides, he concedes defeat with a sigh.
His deadpan reply: “No.”
Kanou pouts, shoulders slumping. Melodramatic as always, his voice’s a mock-pitiful whine. “Huh~ Aso-chan. You’re no fun at all.”
(Good to know that some things never change. The showman’s cadence of his voice, pitched to project, for one: the misdirection of a stage magician, all smoke and mirrors. It’s his way of distracting Haruki from the secondhand smoke of deadly secrets, a saccharine smile stretched wide over Kanou’s face.
But that’s Haruki’s job, isn’t it? To comb through the shadows with the flickering light of his phone, unearthing crumbling skeletons from their closets one by one. So Haruki toes the line of his fluctuating moods, wary of Kanou’s somber threats. Capricious as a cat, that man.
Even though Haruki could easily cut through the sheer fabric of Kanou’s flimsy deflections — the bold transparency of his bare-faced lies — well. All Haruki could say was this: I’ll let you keep your secrets, if you’ll let me keep mine.
… Haruki still side-eyes the bloodstains on Kanou’s lab coat, though. Even though he’s learned not to question them, he couldn’t help but wonder — what, does the afterlife not have bleach?)
Haruki sighs. Again. An effect of prolonged exposure to Kanou, he supposes. Headache-inducing, like three spoonfuls of sugar all at once.
Ah, well. Here goes nothing. “ … My real name is Haruki Atou. It’s only fair that you know. Kanou — or should I say, Aogi-san?”
Kanou raises an eyebrow, unfazed. “Huh~ I figured you’d say something like that. Aso-chan, do you really think that changes anything? Aso-chan is still Aso-chan.”
He pauses, chin resting in his palm. Tilts his head to the side, trying to — what, look cute? Maybe it’d look stupid on any other thirty-something year-old, but he somehow makes it work.
(… Dear god. If Rui heard Haruki now, he’d tease him to no end. First his god-awful coat, and now his god-awful taste in men. Still, he wouldn’t choose anyone else in the world to be his best friend.)
Kanou giggles, trying to sound giddy about it — but the sound’s more bitter than sweet. He plays it up, even if it falls flat — adjusting his glasses, running a shaking hand through his hair. “And — ahaha, I gave up that name long ago, y’know. But thanks, I guess! For telling me.”
His rueful laughter echoes through the stifling silence, piercing through the hazy white fog with surgical precision.
In spite of his curiosity, Haruki still has common decency — he doesn’t press Kanou for further answers. Kanou gives him a knowing smile in response, relieved. … Somehow, this empty landscape feels just a little warmer, in spite of the pervasive chill.
Then, Kanou squints. Looks like he’s finally registering Haruki’s first words to him within this wondrous, dreamlike world. The cozy, companionable atmosphere shatters in seconds.
Suddenly, Kanou’s animated with anger — he rises from where he’s sitting, gripping Haruki by the collar. He stands, meeting Haruki’s eyes with a fierce gaze — blazing with incandescent ire; the flames of his fury are only fanned further by Haruki’s stunned silence.
“Hey, hey, what’s thiiiis about dying? You damn rat. I…” Kanou spits out words between heavy breaths. Teeth clenched, body drawn taut with anger. “I didn’t go to aaaaall that trouble… just for you to join me in several months!! Hey, hey. Do tell me, Aso-chan. Were your fucking promises to live on my behalf just lip service?!”
Haruki’s head is spinning, trying to process Kanou’s barrage of burning words. They sting at his skin like a rain of red-hot coals. Ah, there he goes again — he’s struck Kanou’s sore spot, a nerve.
Haruki holds up a hand, trying and failing to placate Kanou’s mercurial temper — sweating as he attempts to extinguish the roaring flames. “Okay, okay. I’m.. sorry. I’m sorry, Kanou-san, I didn’t forget my promise. I didn’t forget to carry on your precious memory, nor did I discard your dreams.”
Haruki rambles on and on. Words falling from his mouth, at first a trickle — but now, they surge from his lips like a flood. He feels like an idiot. Probably sounds like one, too.
Aah, whatever. As long as it makes that wretched expression on Kanou’s face disappear, then… he’ll have to be fine with looking like a fool. The things he does for this man…
“Don’t worry, Kanou-san. I’ll carry them with me — forever and always. As long as I live, a part of you will always walk the same paths I walk. Go wherever I go. So — please. Don’t you go crying on me, damn four-eyes. Do I look like I have any tissues on me?”
Kanou’s grip eases, but his shoulders are still heaving. Strange enough, he seems… speechless? His eyes are wide. Haruki’s seized with a strange urge to — reach out, or something.
Instead, Haruki sputters, “Haah, I got it, so… Kanou-san, if you don’t sit down, this canoe’s going to—”
What ensues in the next three seconds is pure chaos. First, the canoe tips over, courtesy of Kanou gripping Haruki by the collar in a fit of rage. Second, Haruki nearly gets clocked in the head with a set of flailing oars; after all, Kanou’s desperately trying to keep the sinking canoe upright. Third — well.
A consolation: at least the river’s somewhat shallow. Sure, its waters may be glacial enough to induce an eventual death via hypothermia, but at least its currents are slow enough for Haruki to regain his footing with relative ease.
… It’s been a while, hasn’t it. Since Haruki has seen Kanou laugh like this — at first a little helpless, at the ridiculousness of it all — before tipping his head back in sheer, unbridled mirth. His overly-cheery facade slides off him, like sunlight deflected by a silver mirror.
Like a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis, a rebirth — his true face resurfaces, if only for a few seconds. His wide eyes narrow to pleased crescents, contented as a cat that’s finally cornered its prey.
Snow crystals glittering in his perpetually messy hair, he steps forward: through the water, to Haruki’s side. There’s a familiar smirk on his face. It suits him all too well.
“Aso~chan.” Kanou croons. That sing-song tone of voice… he’s about to make some unreasonable demands, isn’t he. It’s pitched low: a lilting threat.
“.... Yes?” Haruki steps back after a heavy pause, shivering from more than subzero temperatures.
“Not a confession, my ass. … Anyway! You owe me so~ many donuts for this. Be a good guinea pig and pay up ☆, okaaay? or I’ll haunt you every night! ♡ ♡”
“Oi, isn't this on you for tipping over the canoe…” Haruki groans, running a hand through his hair. A mistake: great, now his fingers are freezing, too.
Kanou ignores Haruki’s grumbling. He slings an arm over Haruki’s shoulder, instead, his signature saccharine smile spreading over his face like sunlight. Haruki’s glad to see it again, in spite of the circumstances.
Besides, Haruki is shivering way too hard — his limbs feel half-frozen, far too numb from the cold — to shrug him off. And — well. He supposes he can’t complain about the extra warmth.
Kanou leans closer, gleeful as ever — even when he’s bidding Haruki farewell. Looks like he’s comforted with the thought that their paths will cross again and again, be it in dreams or reality — so it’ll never truly be goodbye.
He whispers into Haruki’s ear, smiling like it’s a secret just for two. “Hey, Aso-chan, did you know? Lying buried beneath the rubble of some dusty old laboratory as my grave, forgotten and all~ alone… it’s super~boring."
“That’s why you’ve got to live forever, so you can leave me strawberry donuts every day~! Don’t you dare forget me, Aso-chan. Okaaay?”
Waking feels like breaking through the surface of a frozen lake. As that wafer-thin barrier between dreamscape and reality fades like fog, his eyes gradually adjust to the dark.
(Haruki used to be afraid of drowning, as a child — and for good reason. He’d scramble around puddles, skittish as a cat — and Rui, knowing the story behind it all, would valiantly try to stifle his laughter. To make up for it, Rui would share his umbrella — even if he had to crouch to compensate for their differing heights.
On rainy days, Rui would always guide him through the wind and the water, walking with him hand in hand.)
It should be sweltering.
Yesterday, Himari-san — his next-door-neighbor — had spoken to him with solemn gravity. She’d sounded like she was announcing their collective funerals. “The air conditioning unit’s broken down for the entire building, Haruki-kun.”
(… Breaking down, huh. After an afternoon of facing August’s blistering heat at full strength, Haruki felt like he was next.)
And yet — the chill remains.
Suspended in the air like a secret, sinking into his lungs like smoke — the aftermath of encountering a ghost. Strange, isn’t it, how it lingers: silent like a spell, or perhaps a curse. Since Kanou couldn’t tag along himself, he’d left a reminder in his stead.
(Perhaps a sentimental person would call it sweet. A benediction beyond the grave, or maybe a blessing — but Haruki thought it more like a haunting. Like being held at gunpoint for pastries, if he were being extreme.
It really says something about the man — that it’s not hard to picture Kanou, holding him hostage for a handful of castella cakes. Something like…
Hand over the sprinkles or I’ll shoot. Or, worse — once you’ve come to a critical juncture on an international case, I’ll cut out the internet at your workplace! Snip snip! Ahaha! Just ~ like ~ that, Aso-chan. Catch my drift?
… Insufferable in both life and death, huh. That’s Kanou-san for you.)
A plan of action, considered: dragging himself from the covers. A plan of action, discarded: moving even an inch of his exhausted body.
Instead, Haruki watches the ceiling fan spin in dizzying circles — stirring up a blessed breeze. Stuck in a half-awake stupor, he lets the memory of their reunion wash over him like a tide.
Kanou, huh. The man’s a mass of contradictions. Conducting experiments with little remorse — how many lab rats, anesthetized or not, have seen the keen glint of his scalpel? How many unwitting guinea pigs have seen the hungry, unhesitating gleam of his surgical knives descend: uncaring of whether they’d come out dead or alive?
But — Haruki can’t forget the gunmetal glint of Kanou’s salvation. Without that unerring hesitation, he wouldn’t have made it out of that building whole, much less hale.
Haruki can’t forget the way Kanou kindled in him red-hot embers of ire with his antics — lighting the match with a careless hand, idly wondering how bright it’d burn. And yet — only now did Haruki realize: the more time he spent angry, the less time had to be afraid.
Annoyance kept him moving in search of answers; spite lit a fire beneath him: powering his steps through corridors filled with macabre decor. It left him tuning out Kanou’s flood of flirtations; he already had to deal with shelves filled with so much information, he felt his brain was going to explode.
Haruki remembers: Kanou loved to ramble about inane, surface-level trivia — but never the particulars about his personal life. The way he likes his coffee with four sugars, for example; insomnia had crept up on him in college, and now his blood was practically caffeine.
(“Never mind dying via monsters. I think you might need to worry about your blood pressure first?!”
“Aso-chaan? Did I ask for your opinion? No? Then behave like a good guinea pig ~ and be quiet. Besides! Kanou-san needs his daily dose of sugar, or he gets reaal cranky.”)
Haruki learned all sorts of trivia about the man — against his will. Including, but not limited to: his subtle affection for stray cats, since his lifestyle meant he could never bring one home. How he always had to wake up early to buy his favorite strawberry soda.
(After all, they sold out faster than he and his fellow scientists could discard their ethics. The only thing that set him apart?
Well, his coworkers did so in the name of their shining savior: their blessed, guiding star. Kanou insisted he was a man of science — that he’d rather be caught dead than kneel at the altar, offering reverence to some self-proclaimed god.)
A strange man, that Kanou. He carries with him all sorts of stories — tales best left untold. The sharp tang of iron that clings to his coat, for one. Even the sting of antiseptic isn't strong enough to drown out the stink of corpses at his feet — mice and men alike, sent to the morgue. Worse — they were left to roam those halls as monsters.
(A consolation: a diamond ring returned to its rightful owner. A woman reunited with the physical evidence of her precious promise: an oath made one day to her beloved.)
Even stranger — how, in spite of it all, the sugary aroma that lingers on his rumpled lapels smells like nostalgia.
(It brings to mind his favorite bakery. The way he’d hurry from his grandmother’s apartment, perking up at the fragrance of fresh bread. Drifting through the August air, drawing him in across the humid, hectic streets.
He’d risk missing the bus for two loaves of melonpan: one for him, and one for Rui. Sure, he kept snapping pictures in secret of Haruki, who’d often fall asleep on his shoulder on the ride home… but he’d always insist on hefting Haruki’s garden supplies over his shoulder, a knowing smile on his face.
Truth be told, Haruki would probably collapse like a house of cards if he tried lifting a single bag of potting soil — never mind carrying it several blocks.
Haruki had grumbled, embarrassed. “Stop looking so smug, Rui. I still can’t forgive you for saying I weigh about as much as a bag of grapes. You didn’t have to carry me, you know. I probably would’ve made it home on my own. Eventually.”
Rui had looked at him, incredulous. “Haruki. You literally collapsed from heatstroke? Let me remind you — didn’t you, in a fit of delirium, mistake me for a marimo moss ball? You, the dehydrated one, dumped your water bottle over my head… mumbling something about moss balls turning brown in direct sunlight. I really didn’t want to take my chances.”
… Oops, Haruki thought he’d long erased that from his memory. There’s a reason why Haruki carries a water bottle on him at all times, okay, especially on sunny days. … Moving on!
The bakery’s elderly owner — Sasaki-san — always laughed at Haruki’s disdain for the more decadent desserts. At the way he’d race through the door: skimming over the display of pastries, wheezing between pleasantries.
After a few months, all Haruki had to do was hold up two fingers, and she’d already be waiting at the counter with his order: smiling all the while.
Haruki remembers how her kindness was a spoonful of honey — a patch of sunlight chasing away the gloomy haze of otherwise miserable days.)
… Haruki still keeps the note Kanou left him, even if it looks like a prop from a cheap horror movie — or more importantly, a biological hazard. It’s physical proof of his promise: an oath forged one fateful day to a dying man. Penned with blood — made in macabre ink.
(Like that one researcher’s diamond ring, Haruki reckons. When he’d returned it to her, the dark curtain of her unkempt hair swayed before she spoke.
When she smiled, it shone like a miniature sun: emerging from the dark haze of clouds, parting for the sheer radiance of relief. In her final moments, that radiance made her distorted features look…like a person again. A half made whole.)
It’s a reminder: that Haruki kept Kanou human until his final moments — even if he had to drag him from the brink of becoming a doll, cursing him out all the while. It’s evidence that he existed outside the fabric of his memories — a way of keeping Kanou’s hopes and dreams alive.
And — most of all, it’s something that Haruki will carry with him for the rest of his life.
… In a few hours, Haruki will have to get dressed for work. Stepping into the sheer heat of summer sunlight feels like waking from a dream.
The hushed silence of snow is shattered with pedestrians’ loud, lively chatter; broken with the bright, brassy sound of bicycle bells. The white noise of a sugar addict who loved hearing his own voice melts away, replaced by cicadas’ summer quartets. The cool, refreshing music of glass wind chimes echoes through the muggy air, already erasing the snap and snarl of the merciless winter wind.
Once Haruki arrives at the office, he’d find Rui and Shinano greeting him from their respective stations… with a near-eerie synchrony.
It’s been happening for the past few days, too. It’s starting to scare him, just a little. Haruki’s starting to think Rui and Shinano have both started to rehearse their timing, just to mess with him. … Oh, wait.
Theory debunked — Shinano’s way too sweet to even come up with such a scheme, even in his dreams.
Even now, his eyes still sparkle at the Dita keychain Haruki bought him. It had been a… welcoming gift, of sorts, back when Shinano’d first washed up wandering the streets: memories wiped clean, like snow burying footprints without a trace.
See, Haruki had guided him through fond and familiar landmarks, to little avail. But… once they’d arrived at the closest konbini, Shinano had stared at him with those shining eyes… and, well. Even though Haruki’s been trying to develop an immunity to Shinano’s puppy-eyed pouting, as of late, he still has his moments of weakness.
… Anyway, half the agency’s out investigating, so of course Rui and Shinano would perk up at the sight of any visitors. Ah, well. Haruki would much rather take a slow day at the office than melt into a puddle on the pavement. Five minutes in, and he’d probably evaporate.
Rui, the resident mother hen, would glance up from a veritable mountain of files — instantly zeroing in on Haruki’s eyebags. A tiger waiting to pounce, that man.
No matter the workload, he’d always make time to fret over his best friend. Haruki appreciated the concern. Really. But the subtle interrogation about his sleep habits? Seriously unnecessary…
Shinano, having stayed up the night before binging the latest season of Dita Sword, would arrive right on time to change the subject. They’d talk about the miserable, muggy humidity that’s made its home in Tokyo, and Rui would drop the subject with a knowing smile and a sigh.
Shinano, oblivious, would eagerly chatter with Haruki about the revitalizing effect of coffee, comparing it to chugging potions in an RPG.
(Haruki still remembers the day Shinano somehow convinced him and Reiji to see a Dita film at the local theater, mostly because it was so damn cold outside.
It’s a good memory, though, Haruki has to admit. Maybe even better than curling up beneath the kotatsu on his day off with a handful of oranges, dreaming about expanding his ever-growing collection of indoor plants.
Geez. Shinano’s heart is so easily moved, Haruki can’t help but worry sometimes. The other day, Haruki had to curse out a scammer over the phone — that is, for stringing Shinano along with a sob story. Haruki had been enduring a series of sleepless nights, okay, and all that repressed anger had to go somewhere.
… Come to think of it, the experience was rather cathartic. Well, whatever. It’s safe to say that Shinano’s been left alone ever since.
… Don’t get him wrong, though — Shinano’s got a willpower that astounds him, day by day.
Even as fissures spread over his skin, like fractures in porcelain. Even as his dark eyes stared and stared, hollow and haunting, and a dark smile grew hauntingly wide on his usually sunny face… his first instinct was to shield Haruki, not slaughter. Protect him, rather than pierce his heart with his newly acquired appendages — hovering at the ready, waiting to strike.
That’s what Haruki admires about Shinano, even now — the way he was able to cling to even a crumb of his humanity, even when infected with a foreign entity.
Reiji’s got a heart of gold, too. Sure, Reiji insisted he hadn’t shed a tear at the grand finale, but… Haruki’s pretty sure he caught his eyes watering, at least once or twice. His brother might look all stoic on the outside, but he’s seriously just a softie. Haruki can’t believe he found him suspicious, once upon a time.
Luckily for them, Haruki keeps a pack of tissues in his pocket. A must-have for allergy season and near-arctic temperatures, since Haruki’s pretty weak to winter’s extremes.
… Even if the popcorn was cheap and oversalted, Haruki remembers — he would’ve loved a movie like this when he was a kid. Escapism from the sky-high tension boiling at home — between him and his sad excuse of a father, from the ever-present ache of his limbs, from the powerlessness of his fragile, failing body.
(… Haa, well. Imagining a future where Haruki can coexist with Sanemitsu isn’t so hard, now that old hag’s stopped avoiding his calls.
No, it’s not forgiveness — seriously, where were all these awkward attempts at affection all those years ago? How can Haruki ever forget the wounds left from childhood, from that scathing, red-hot scorn; from the brutal, steady burn of his disregard? Haruki Isoi might not be alive to rake his father over the coals, but Haruki Atou’s more than willing to reprimand him for hours.
Still. Now that Haruki’s finally had a conversation with the man, he can’t help but hope. For all the names Haruki called that damn hag — that braided bastard… Haruki’s starting to think “Father” doesn’t sound so bad.
… And, hey. Half of that sentiment is for Reiji’s sake, okay. His typically deadpan face brightens like the sun when he sees the two of them getting along.)
Just for an hour and thirty minutes, the viewer can forget the crushing weight of reality!
Armed with a swing of his holy sword, the immutable power of friendship, and his cute animal sidekick, well. It’s safe to say that Dita’s one overpowered sixteen-year-old, even for a magical boy.)
Maybe Haruki would open the window, even though the office’s air conditioning feels like it’s been cranked up to the nines. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be caught dead wearing a coat and turtleneck in the middle of August.
He’s just… craving a bit of fresh air, that’s all.
If he listens close enough, he could catch a familiar voice counting down. Sing-song, yet somewhat menacing.
… Wow. Kanou must be having so much fun, playing at being the ghost of some budget horror flick. Heaven should rejoice, for not having this menace join their number. He’d probably annoy the hell out of the devil, too, given enough spare time.
(Dear god. He’s been spending too much time with Shinano, as of late. His corny puns are contagious, spreading across the office like wildfire. At least Haruki can rely on Rui to remain immune.)
… Hey, Kanou-san. Patience is a virtue, you damn four-eyes. I can’t just skip work on your whims, but I’ll be sure to pay you a visit before dark. So — wait for me, okay?
The lights flicker once, twice. It’s the closest thing Haruki will get to a response.
Shinano tilts his head to the side, curious. (He’s idly tapping a rhythm at his desk, scanning incident reports with half-lidded eyes. Haruki recognizes it as the ending theme to “Magical Boy Dita and the Sword of God.” It’s Shinano’s latest ringtone, after all.)
After a moment, Shinano’s eyes widen. There’s a faint tremor in his voice as he wonders, “Atou-san. W-what is this, a haunting?”
Ah, but Haruki’s known Kanou long enough to laugh, instead. It’s their secret language, even if Haruki’s never bothered to brush up on Morse code.
No. This is no poltergeist, nor your standard paranormal infestation. Normal ghosts wouldn’t harass him for donuts, after all. Normal ghosts wouldn’t sling an icy arm around Haruki’s shoulders when he’s working, vying for his attention with a pleading pout: clingy as a spoiled cat.
Haruki smiles and rolls his eyes, instead of shivering. He knows all too well — these flickering lights, this wintry wind, this mischievous voice…
No need to be afraid, Shinano. It’s just Kanou’s way of saying hello.
*
KANOU
The thing about Aso is this: he always notices, but hardly ever asks. A conversation starter: the evident stains on your coat, the ashen taste of a secret staining your teeth, the copper tang of blood on your hands.
Nosiest “teacher” you’ve met in your life. That’s Aso-chan for you. Is that even his real name? Probably not. Geez. Not only is Aso-chan a liar, but he’s also a fool. (Not that you’re any better, of course. What a pair the two of you make.)
Putting his faith in a man who’s tried to murder him not once, but twice! That’s what you love about him — that steadfast idiocy, that insufferable stubbornness of his.
Hey, Aso-chan, can you hear me? Let me tell you something.
That’s the thing about liars —- we can look each other in the eye and laugh, because who are you even trying to fool, Aso-chan? Ha, don’t give me that look. We’re two of a kind, aren’t we?
Ahaha. You know, Aso-chan, I wish I could’ve written you a long, looong paragraph about aaaall the sights I wanted to see. But, well! There’s only so much space on a scrap of paper, and my body’s starting to run out of ink. If you get what I mean ♡!
I wanted to see the sky again, you know. Catch a glimpse of the clouds firsthand. It’s been sooooo long, I’m starting to forget what a halcyon day looks like — that is, without panes of glass caging me in. All that endless blue, from hill to horizon.
I wanted to drop by my favorite donut shop. Wouldn’t it be utterly hiiilarous? Think of the cashiers’ shocked expressions — like they’d caught a glimpse of a ghost. I wish I could’ve gotten a good, long laugh at the spectacle. Settle at my favorite spot by the window, soak up the sunlight, and watch it all unfold.
Aha ~ all that sugar would probably make your head spin, Aso-chan. I think it’d be so~ funny to watch you glare at me with that judging gaze of yours… for exposing you to so much of it at once! And — since you owe the great and benevolent Kanou-san for saving you, I’ll let you handle the bill~!
You know, I’m so siiick of this shitty incandescent lighting. Aah, I want to have a word with upper management — all this funding, and this is the best you can afford? Seriously.
I want to feel the sun shining on my skin again. Hey, should I list it all out for you, Aso-chan?
On a mild autumn morning, I want to feel the rain on my face firsthand. On a warm spring day, I want to feel the wind through my hair one last time. … That sure sounds like heaven right now, I’ll have you know.
(What, you never thought I was such a poet? Never thought I had such flowery words up my sleeves? Hey, Aso-chan. Don’t ruin the mood like this, you foul rat.)
… Okay, okay. I won’t delude myself any longer about dreams that’ll never come to pass. Trash belongs in the trash can, or something?? Ahaha. That’s my dear coworker’s policy, anyway.
Jabuchi-san, was it. He’s grumpy on the outside, but he’s secretly kinda sweet? If you ever ask him about his girlfriend, his face lights up like the Tokyo Tower at night — even if it’s only for a few seconds. … Don’t tell him I said that.
… Aso-chan. Thanks for listening. You’ll probably forget these foolish ramblings in the morning, but that’s perfectly fine with me. ♡ As long as you walk this earth with me in mind, perhaps a part of me’ll never die. I guess… that’s the closest thing I’ll find to immortality?
I’ll remember this. The way you extended a hand to me when I was dying; the way you held onto my words like they were made of gold.
What a soft-hearted idiot, I thought. Ahaha. I don’t dislike that about you, but seriously. Did you really think playing the hero made you immune??
Anyway! Enough of that. I’ll only say this once, so listen up. Okay? Okaaay.
Don’t forget, Aso-chan. The weight of your promise. The weight of my life. I leave it all to you.
Live a good, long time, Aso-chan. That’s the least you can do to repay me. You reached out to me in my final moments — so take responsibility.
My heart rests in your hands now, so don’t even think of letting go.