Archive of Our Own

Nene buzzed with nervous excitement from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. She didn’t know what to do with herself. It was as if she was slowly atomizing from the inside out, the thin resistance of her skin and the dress hugging tight to her chest, the only things keeping her in once piece.

The paneled walls of the dressing room glowed in the early afternoon sun. Nene kept her eyes fixed on those walls, reflected in the set of floor-length mirrors in front of her. She took a deep breath, trying to ignore the shake in it, and smoothed her hands over her skirt. Behind her, her mother made a little tsking noise, “Oh dear,” she sighed, “Ao-chan, get some tissues, she’s crying again.”

“Nene-chan!” Aoi turned from where she’d been digging through the jewelry Nene’s mother had brought and made a beeline for the already half-empty box of tissues, “You’re not supposed to cry yet, you—oh, hold still,” Aoi dabbed at a tear that already escaped containment, and handed the rest of the bunch to Nene.

Nene sniffled, “I’m sorry. I can’t help it.”

Her mother sighed and tied off the laces of her dress, snug against her spine, “You don’t get to cry when we’ve only just got you dressed,” she put her hands on Nene’s waist and met her eyes in the mirror. She smiled, “That’s my job.”

A watery laugh bubbled up in Nene’s throat. She supposed they were right. Maybe other women didn’t burst into tears just looking in a mirror, but Nene had always been a bit of a crybaby. It was as true at twenty-four as it had been at fifteen. And besides, it wasn’t like she was going to run out. There would be plenty of tears for later. She was so certain of her ability to provide ample waterworks throughout the whole day, that she and Aoi had spent an entire evening field-testing so-called ‘waterproof’ mascaras—watching a breakup’s worth of sad movies and adorable dog videos to try and find the right brand—just to be sure that Nene would be able to make it through the day without turning into a raccoon halfway through.

After all, a girl only got married once.

It still didn’t feel real.

Amane had proposed to her about a year ago, sitting across from her at the dinner table, looking nervous enough to throw up as he fiddled with his collar and tugged at his sleeves. She couldn’t say that she hadn’t been expecting something to happen. He’d come out of nowhere saying that he wanted to make her dinner, which wasn’t unusual, but he’d been adamant that it was more than that. ‘Special dinner,’ he’d said, ‘just…y’know. Yeah.’ And when he’d grabbed her hand halfway through their meal and pressed a ring into her fist like he was trying to get rid of it, she’d been so charmed by how red his face was that she didn’t even have the wherewithal to cry about it.

The crying came later, of course. She’d kissed him stupid and told him how dumb he was, how much she loved him, through huge sobs and streams of fat Miyazaki-style tears.

‘Why didn’t you just ask?’ she’d said, ‘I had no idea what was going on for a second! I thought you were just giving me a present!’

‘Wh—I was gonna take you to that late-night crepe place and ask there, but—but you were looking at me! I—I panicked!’

‘I look at you all the time!’ she’d said, laughing through her tears, and planted a kiss on his cheek.

‘Yeah, and it always psychs me out!’

‘I’m just glad you didn’t run away this time,’ she’d giggled, remembering how terrible his technique for wooing her had been at fifteen, ‘though, I would’ve tracked you down to say yes, anyway.’

Even then, with his face in her hands, smiling too hard to do any proper kissing every time she pressed their mouths together, it hadn’t seemed real.

She wondered when it would start feeling real.

Her mother tapped her elbows and Nene raised them obediently to let her adjust her seams, “You look beautiful, Nene-chan.”

“You do!” Aoi said, and trotted over to grip Nene’s hand, smiling wide, “I’m so happy for you! You’re going to knock his socks off.”

Nene looked up into the mirror. She wasn’t usually one to get a big head about compliments—her self-image issues from high school had faded, but never completely vanished—but she had to admit that they were right. She felt beautiful, standing there in her wedding dress. She’d gotten lucky and found something she loved on the first try. And she did love it; loved the sweetheart neckline, the off-the-shoulder sleeves, and most of all, the sweeping A-line it cut to the floor. It made her look taller, and it concealed her ankles, even in heels, which was always a plus.

She turned in place to admire herself and smiled. Her mother stole a tissue from her fist and dabbed at her eyes.

The door to the dressing room opened and Nene heard Aoi make a displeased noise low in her throat, “Excuse me!” she snapped, and moved to shield Nene with her body, “You’re not supposed to be in here! It’s bad luck!”

A laugh, “I’m not Amane! It doesn’t matter if I see her!”

“Tsukasa-kun?” Nene turned to look. She hadn’t expected him to visit her before the ceremony, but there he was. It surprised her that he’d unglued himself from Amane’s side at all today, “what are you doing here?”

Tsukasa grinned. His suit looked nice, which she was sure was Amane’s doing; though she noticed that his tie had already come undone, and that under his jacket, his shirt had begun to untuck itself, “I came to talk to you!”

“About?”

“Sibling stuff, Nene-chan! Sibling stuff!” he stepped around her mother to lean down into her face and smirked, “you are my new sister, after all!”

Nene flushed, “Oh, okay then.”

He glanced over at Nene’s mother, where she was tucking a few last whisps of hair into her chignon, “Secret sibling stuff.”

The other women got the picture, and Nene was left alone with her future brother-in-law. She gathered her skirts up and moved to survey the jewelry Aoi had left out for her, “What do you want to talk about, Tsukasa-kun?”

He idled behind her, seemingly enthralled by the bouquet of camellias near the window, “Is this the dream you wanted?”

She blinked, “What?”

“Your dream,” he said, distractedly, “this is it?”

“I suppose it is,” she touched the vanity and frowned, “Why…why are you asking?”

But he’d already moved on, “Hey, hey, Nene-chan—how much do you love Amane?” he asked, bright and cheery.

“I—very much,” she said, blushing, “I love Amane-kun very much, you know that.”

“Do I?” he said, and when she looked up at him in the mirror, he was already watching her. Their eyes met, and he cocked his head to the side like a dog. A chill ran up Nene’s spine. His eyes were dark, bottomless. He got like this sometimes, capricious and frightening, and it always made her skittish. She tried to wave it off afterwards—when sweet, funny Tsukasa returned, and he was all smiles once again. Nene had long since decided that it must be her brain sinking into the uncanny valley that came from knowing twins; from looking into her fiancé’s face and recognizing that the man wearing it was not him.

It even happened with Amane, sometimes. When she would sit and watch him working at his desk, grading papers, or writing tests. When they would curl up together under the kotatsu and watch bad movies; pleasant, and happy, and warm. She would look up at him and something primal would fire in the back of her brain. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. And it would take several hours before Nene felt settled in her skin again.

Tsukasa held her gaze in the mirror, his mouth quirked in a cruel sort of smile. Then, just as quickly as he had left, sweet Tsukasa was back. He laughed and strode over to hug her from behind, tucked his chin into her shoulder, “Just kidding! I know that! Of course, I know that! Because we’re the same, Nene-chan. We both love Amane. Isn’t that great?”

Nene smiled, though she still felt very unsettled, and turned to kiss his cheek, “It is. I’m very happy.”

“Good!” Tsukasa said, though he didn’t let her go, even as she worked a bracelet onto her wrist.

She glanced up at him in the mirror and frowned. He had an oddly pensive look on his face, eyes fixed on the jewelry box. “Is…is that all you wanted to talk about?”

“No,” he said. But he didn’t elaborate. Nene gently shrugged him off and reached for her necklace. Cautious of her hair, she ducked her head to put it on. Her fingers slipped on the clasp and she hissed in frustration. Tried again.

There was a rustle, and she jumped as Tsukasa reached past her to pluck the chain from her grip. He set to fastening it around her neck with an obsessive kind of intensity that did nothing to assuage her nerves, or her discomfort. Nene waited, not wanting to move, and feeling more than a bit like a cornered animal under his hands.

“How have your nightmares been, Nene-chan?”

She froze. Her voice, when it came, was barely audible, “…What?”

“How,” a pause as he finished fastening her necklace and moved to place his hands on her shoulders instead, “have your nightmares been?”

Trembling, Nene closed her eyes. Counted her breaths. He didn’t know. He couldn’t know how cruel it was of him to ask her that—on today of all days. When she was supposed to be busy being utterly and completely happy.

Her life was good. Very good. She had a fulfilling job, a wonderful group of friends, a fiancé who loved her. Even her in-laws were great—Tsukasa and Amane’s parents were wonderful. They adored their sons, and by extension, Nene, and she never ever felt out of place or unwanted in their presence. Not to mention Tsukasa, who—despite his many eccentricities—was always good to her. She loved them all very much.

Any woman would have been happy with that kind of life.

But the nightmares. They were the exception. Dreams full of danger and doom. Murder and pain and so much aching sorrow that she was sure she would fall apart with the force of it every night that she screamed herself awake in Amane’s arms. And he would hold her and run his fingers through her hair and tell her that everything was okay. She was safe. He was there. Not to worry.

Nene didn’t believe him. She couldn’t. Not with her nightmares so fresh in her mind; dreams that felt so real, she had trouble distinguishing awake from asleep. The only trick she’d found was to check her own body. To look at herself in the mirror. Because no matter how old she grew in the waking world, she was always fifteen in her dreams. Fifteen and running for her life from dolls and zombies and horrors. Fifteen and drowning on dry land as her legs turned to fins and her throat split open into gills. Fifteen and terrified, lost in a void of endless darkness and a million diverging doors, unable to find her way home no matter how hard she tried.

Fifteen, and confused, hurt, betrayed. Fifteen, and so deeply in love that it hurt to look at straight on. And that alone made the whole mess almost bearable. Because matter how afraid she was, how horrifying or terrible the dreams became, that one bastion of sanity and comfort remained. Amane would always be there, too. And she loved him just as fiercely in her dreams as she did in the waking world—if not more.

Except, he wasn’t called Amane in her nightmares, and she could never remember his name by the time she woke up. Sobbing and afraid with it just on the tip of her tongue, weeping for something she couldn’t remember, no matter how hard she tried. Amane. Young, like he’d been when they’d first started dating, fumbling his way into asking her to the movies. But he was strange. Distant, sometimes. Jealous. Dangerous.

And awake, still terrified and shivering, Nene would look into the face of her Amane. Waking Amane, who loved her and wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. Amane, who was sweet and kind and loving. Amane, who would hold her and kiss her and tell her that everything would be okay. And she would know that he was wrong. And that horrible uncanny feeling would come screaming to life somewhere deep in the animal part of her brain, louder than it ever was in any other situation, and she couldn’t ignore it even if she tried.

Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong—and she would bury her face into his chest and cry herself back to sleep, because if she couldn’t see him, then maybe he would be right by the time she woke up again. Because if she didn’t look at him, she could convince herself that he was himself. The other himself, with a different name, and a knife’s edge in his voice.

That Amane, despite all his cruelty and all his danger, that Amane never felt wrong. Never. She looked for him often. Searched her fiancé’s face for any sign of him. And sometimes, she thought she saw him—a sharpness to his grin, the proprietary hand he put on her spine when they stood together on the metro—but he was always gone before she could be sure.

Standing in the mirror, she leveled Tsuakasa with a withering glare as she wrestled her heartbeat back under control, “Fine. They’re fine.”

He laughed, sounding utterly delighted by her lie, “You’re such a bad liar, Nene-chan!” he giggled to himself, and she felt his fingers tighten on her shoulders, “Still bad, then? You still wake up crying?” Nene flinched. The words stung, and she would have thought he said them maliciously, if he didn’t sound so genuinely curious, “I tried to tell Amane that they’d keep bubbling up, but he didn’t believe me.”

“What are you—”

“You know, he hasn’t come to see you once since you’ve been here? What do you think that means?”

Nene swallowed, throat suddenly dry, “It means—it means it’s bad luck to see the bride before the—”

“—the wedding!” he crowed, “Yeah! I even told him about it! I popped up when he was doing his rounds yesterday and I grabbed him and I was like, ‘hey! Hey Amane! Congratulations!!’ and he was so confused, it was so funny, Nene-chan, I wish you’d been there. So, I decided to explain it to him a little better because he’s kinda slow sometimes. ‘You’re getting married! Isn’t that neat?! Congratulations! Where—'” he had to pause to recover from a fit of giggles “‘where do I send the wedding presents, Amane? Or should I just leave them outside the bathroom?’”

“Tsukasa-kun, please.”

It was as if she hadn’t spoken at all, Tsukasa barreled on, buoyed by the hilarity he found in his own story. Hilarity that was completely lost on Nene, who could only feel her throat closing as fear reached up to strangle her.

“I thought for sure he’d come visit for the wedding, I mean,” he laughed, and reached up to pinch her cheeks, “If he doesn’t, then it’s kinda like you’re two-timing on Amane…with Amane! Isn’t that funny?!”

She swatted his hands away and turned to face him, “Stop it! I don’t know what you’re talking about, you—you’re scaring me. Please. Just—please leave. I need to get ready.”

He blinked, “But I haven’t given you your wedding present, yet.”

“Wedding—” her voice died in her throat as, from the inside of his jacket, Tsukasa produced a long, slender dagger. It shone silver in the sunlight, like still water, smooth as glass; the cross guard covered in silver milgrain and filigree that sparkled and gleamed. It was the kind of blade that seemed sharp enough to slice the very air around it. The kind of blade that was made to kill.

Nene was going to be sick. She stumbled back, braced a hand against the mirror to keep herself from toppling over completely. Tsukasa didn’t move to follow, simply held the knife out to her, hilt first, eyes glittering with a smug kind of amusement.

“So ungrateful, Nene-chan! I thought you’d be happy to see it again. I kept it for you!”

Her breath came fast and shallow, blackness closing in around the edges of her vision, “I don’t—I’ve never—”

“You don’t remember?” He pouted, and he suddenly seemed very young to her—a boy in a man’s body, teasing her like a playground bully, “I guess you wouldn’t. That’s okay though, I’ll just explain it to you!”

And then he was behind her, one arm wrapped around her waist as the other placed the knife in her shaking hand and held it up to the light. Nene cringed away, but his hold on her was like iron, and his fingers around her hand felt frigid against her pulse.

“I’ve been keeping an eye on you,” He said, “because Amane wouldn’t. He wouldn’t let himself come back to see you, and I couldn’t figure out why—but then I realized.” The hand on her waist tightened suddenly and she gasped, “He didn’t come see me for a really long time, too! Ages! Such a long time! I think. Maybe. Years!”

They were drifting around the room now. Him, aimlessly moving back and forth; her, being dragged along with him, in a twisted mirror of a waltz, “And that made me think, Wow! He really really loves her! Because Amane never lets himself get what he wants, you know. He’s got all these ideas about how the world works—all these rules, about what is and isn’t possible. What is and isn’t right.” She flinched as Tsukasa turned to put his lips to her ear, and she could hear the smile in his voice, sharp and cruel, “But since when do rules stop anybody from wanting things? Wanting things is the best part! The struggle of it…” He hummed and pulled back, “And poor Amane! He struggles so much. He tries and tries to keep himself away from the things he wants, because he thinks he shouldn’t want them at all!”

Tsukasa spun her around to face him and gripped her tight, nose to nose, the dagger still clutched in their outstretched hands, “But I don’t think the world needs rules. I think he should just take what he wants because he wants it. I think everyone should get what they wish for. Don’t you, Nene-chan? Isn’t the world better when we get what we want?”

Somewhere in her throat, Nene felt her voice box unlock, “But—but what if someone gets hurt? Shouldn’t—”

“Then we forgive him!” He said, reasonable as anything, “Wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you forgive him?”

“I—” Nene tried to lean back at the waist, put some distance between their faces, but Tsukasa met her step for step, leaned forward until he was bent over her, until his arm around her back was the only thing keeping her from crashing to the floor.

“I’d forgive him,” he murmured, “I already have. I’d forgive anything.”

She swallowed. “I don’t know…” but she did. She did. Nene knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she would forgive him, too.

Tsukasa stood up straight again, tugging her with him, and the change of altitude so suddenly was enough to make her dizzy, “So, I thought, If Amane won’t do what he wants for himself, then I’ll help! So, I’ve been keeping an eye on you. Number Four gives me regular updates, and sometimes I come visit! And it’s been fun! Super fun! You’re really fun, Nene-chan! And you love Amane just as much as I do!”

“You’re not making any sense,” she whispered, tears pushing at her lashes.

He smiled, and she wasn’t sure if it was the light or her still swimming head, but for a moment she could have sworn his eyes were black, “You’re not listening.”

“No,” Nene said, and pulled out of his grip, “No, you’re not listening, Tsukasa-kun. I—I have no idea what you’re talking about! You’re saying all of these awful things, and, and I have no idea what’s going on anymore!” She wiped at her eyes and pointed at him with the knife that was still in her hand, “I’m getting married! I’m marrying your brother, and you’re talking about—about him avoiding me or—or whatever it is that you’re saying. But that’s not what’s happening at all! How could he be avoiding me? He’s right down the hall! And in,” she glanced at the clock near the window, ticking away steadily, “twenty minutes, we are going to go downstairs and—and…”

Nene paused. Stared.

There was something wrong with the sky.

Outside, it was blue and perfect, a beautiful spring afternoon, with clouds artfully scattered in little clusters. And, beyond them, the moon. Round and full and huge in the sky, just as it always was.

But…wasn’t the moon supposed to be smaller? And…it wasn’t supposed to be constantly full, was it? Nene had spent hours and hours on end staring at the moon—sitting bundled up in blankets on the roof of her apartment, snuggled up next to Amane as he set up his telescope to let them look at the stars; nights spent lying awake in bed, watching through her window at the swollen disk of silver as Amane breathed slow and steady beside her. She wracked her brain, trying to remember if it had ever been gone, if it had ever waxed or waned. If she had ever looked up at it and noticed how pretty a crescent it was, or how dark the sky became when it was new.

She could not.

“The…the moon,” she gasped, “it doesn’t change.” Tsukasa didn’t respond, only folded his hands politely behind his back and smiled. “Is—isn’t it supposed to change?”

“I dunno. Is it?”

“I feel. I feel like it is,” she stepped to the window, knife clacking heavy on the sill as she leaned toward it, “but it doesn’t. And that’s weird. Right? That’s weird? Why would that be weird? It doesn’t change, it—”

“Nene-chan,” she flinched as she felt Tsukasa’s hand close around her wrist, “You’re clearly having trouble here. How about I give you a hint?” She looked back at him, tears in her eyes and panic boiling in her chest. Tsukasa, with his grin still firmly in place, folded her hand into a fist between his own and guided her to tap it against the window.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

Nene gasped. There wasn’t enough air in her lungs. There wasn’t enough air in the room. She was trembling so hard that Tsukasa had to support her at the elbows, and she felt faint as she stared down at her hands, at her slim fingers and rounded nails with their seafoam green polish, at the band around her finger, the stone glittering bright like a star against her skin.

Hanako-kun?! What are you doing in my classroom?! her heart wouldn’t stop pounding, you think it’s crazy, too, right? You don’t think this is normal, do you?!  the blood in her ears rushed like the sea in a storm, rising high to a crescendo, So what if this world isn’t real?! All these years, all this time, Of course! Going back to your world is simple! She was drowning. Find Yugi Amane… Bile rose in her throat, and Mitsuba Sousuke… Her knees buckled, and she heard Tsukasa laugh, holding her up as she sagged into him.

I really do hope you manage to kill Amane.

“No,” She whispered, “No, no, no, no—”

Tsukasa hummed and rubbed her shoulder comfortingly, “There she is. Welcome back, Nene-chan.”

“It’s not real…It’s not,” her fingers twisted in his sleeve as she gripped the arm around her waist, “it can’t be real. It’s not real.”

“I was super sad when you chickened out and tried to talk Amane out of keeping you here,” Tsukasa mused, “It’s much less interesting. He thought so, too! That’s why it didn’t work!”

Nene lurched out of his grip and doubled over the windowsill, still halfway to vomiting as she gulped in air like a dying fish, “Amane-kun—he…”

“He wanted you to stay here, so you could stay alive,” said Tsukasa. His palm traveled in calming circles over her spine, “To be honest, I didn’t think he’d actually do it, but that’s one of the reasons I like Amane so much. He always surprises me!”

“He—he left me,” she sobbed, “He left. Us. Here!”

“He did!” He giggled, “He’s such a—”

“Bastard!”

“Oh!” Tsukasa ducked out of the way as Nene grabbed the knife from where she’d dropped it and hurled it at the mirror behind them. It connected with a resounding crash, sending shards of mirror glass showering down onto the floor. He laughed, clapping furiously, “Yeah! Yeah! Throw something else, Nene-chan!”

Nene wiped her eyes with her fist, “How could he—who does he—what gave him the right?!” Her terror and sorrow soldered into a molten bar of rage in her stomach. There had been a time when Tsukasa terrified her. All his power and all his capricious disregard for human life had cowed her when she’d first met him. But Yashiro Nene was no longer a fifteen-year-old girl, and she wasn’t afraid of ghosts anymore—even though she knew in her gut that Tsukasa could still kill her as easily as she dead-headed the plants on her balcony.

“He’s the boss, Nene-chan, remember? Remember?”

She did. She remembered everything. Remembered convincing Amane to run away with her, how Shijima had followed them through the city, how terrified she’d been. How Shijima’s instructions had rung in her ears for hours after. How Amane—Hanako, she reminded herself, it had been so long since she’d been able to recall that name—had knocked her out and brought her back to the school. His fight with Kou, and her imprisonment in Shijima’s tower. Nene remembered meeting Mei, and feeling, for once, like she could actually fix things. She just had to get Hanako to listen to her. Just had to convince him to come with them. To let them go.

She remembered how it had all gone south so quickly. He’d gotten that look on his face that she hated so much—the look that meant that he wasn’t going to listen. That he’d already made up his mind, and nothing she said and nothing she did would ever change it. And the world had finished—she’d felt it finish like a weight dropping into her stomach—and that had been that.

Nene had tried, in the beginning, to get out. She’d enlisted Kou, enlisted Mitsuba. But none of them could figure out how to leave. Mitsuba could go, of course—his power as a supernatural kept him from being trapped like the rest of them—but he couldn’t take anyone with him. They’d tried everything. Tried running, tried fighting, tried begging Shijima to let them go, but they’d never been able to find her again. Once the painting was finished, she’d just hung it up and moved onto her next work, paying little attention to the world she’d made for them.

And eventually, she couldn’t quite remember why she was angry. Couldn’t quite remember what was wrong in the first place. Wasn’t her life good? Wasn’t she happy? Amane took her to the movies, and they’d kissed on the roof at the end of the school year, and she’d done exactly what Hanako had wanted, in the end, even if that sense of wrongness—of unreality—never really left. She’d forgotten. She’d grown up. She’d been happy.

The fight went out of her as fast as it had come, and Nene collapsed to her knees and sobbed. Tsukasa watched her in silence. She hiccupped, tears streaming down her face and off her chin—leaving no trace of their passing, thanks to her heavy-duty waterproof mascara. “He—he r-r-really…never came back?” she whimpered. “Not once?”

“Nope!” he said, “I told you, Nene-chan: He loves you! That’s how you can tell! You can trust me, I would know.” He spun on the spot and threw his arms out, “Aaall of this is for you! I just wanted to put you in here so you would bust out and break Number Four’s yorishiro. But Amane saw it, and he decided to make her finish it special, just for you! Isn’t that nice?”

“No!” Nene wailed, and she tried her best to push the tears from her eyes before they fell into her lap and soaked her dress, “No, it’s—it’s cruel and awful and—” her throat gave out and she fell into hysterics again.

Tsukasa hummed, “I don’t think you understand Amane very much, Nene-chan. But that’s okay! I’ll teach you, no worries!” he crouched down beside her and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, “Amane,” he said, very slowly, like explaining to a child, “loves us. He loves us soooo much.”

“H-how is this love?” She sobbed.

“He’d do anything for us!” He said, gleeful, “Anything, Nene-chan! He loves us so much it scares him—and he’d do anything to protect us, even from himself! He’d…trap us. Or…make us forget him,” he tipped her face up to look at him, “or…kill for us, or…” Tsukasa pressed a hand to his own chest and grinned, wide and manic, “Kill us, too!”

Tsukasa’s smile settled into something softer, almost gentle. He reached up and wiped the tears from her cheeks, voice quiet, “Isn’t it amazing?” he asked, “To be loved that much?”

There weren’t any words. She couldn’t speak. Could only cry as Tsukasa used the cuff of his jacket to dab at her eyes, “And we forgive him…because we love him, too. Don’t we?”

She hiccupped wetly. Satisfied that her cheeks were finally dry, Tsukasa took her hands between his own and placed them in his lap, “I do,” he said, and squeezed her fingers, “Do you love him that much, too?”

Reluctantly, Nene nodded. Tsukasa grinned, “Good! Very good!” He stood and marched across the room, through the shards of glass like they were nothing—which, she supposed, they were. She watched through her tears as he bent smoothly and picked up the knife from where it lay, “You’re not dead yet, Nene-chan,” he said, “and I don’t usually grant wishes for living people.”

She blinked up at him through swollen eyes as he strode back over to her and crouched down, still smiling happily, “but I think I’ll give you a freebie this time, okay? Because you’ve been so fun!”

“Wh-what?”

He pulled her to her feet and steadied her with his hands on her shoulders, “Amane has lots of wishes, but he doesn’t think he can have any of them. That’s why he won’t visit and play house with you! So, I figure it’s okay if I give you one of his.” He gestured at the room around them, like he was offering her the world, “Well, Nene-chan? What do you want? What’s your wish?”

“I—” I want Hanako to come back. I want Amane to throw open that door and tell me that you’ve been pranking me, and that he’s very upset with you. I want to walk down the hall and get married to my fiancé. I want to stay here. I want to slap Hanako’s stupid seal off his stupid face. “I want…I want to go home.”

Tsukasa hummed, “Well…that’s easy, you know. You don’t even need me to make that wish come true.” He reached down and eased her hand open. Pressed Shijima’s knife into her limp fingers until she held it on her own, “Right?”

Nene stared at the knife in her hand and swallowed, “I can’t—”

“Can’t you?” He tugged gently on her wrist, “It’s easy, I promise.”

“N-no, Amane-kun—”

“Nene-chan,” Tsukasa’s voice cracked like a whip through the silence, “You’re being very silly. That,” he gestured at the door—when had the door opened, anyway? “isn’t Amane. You know that. You knew that right from the beginning! Remember?”

She did. There had been several weeks, right at the start, when she’d been fighting so hard to break out, that she had refused to even acknowledge Amane’s presence—because he wasn’t real. Because Hanako had left him behind in his stead, had changed out of his costume and left the mask behind to fill in the void, and she’d been unable to look at him without bursting into furious tears at how not like Hanako he was.

“So, I’ll ask again,” Tsukasa spun her in his arms and walked her toward the door, “Do you love him?”

“I do,” she whispered.

Tsukasa pushed her out into the hall, “Do you love him enough to get back to him?”

“…I do.”

Their steps were quiet on the floor as they approached a door at the far end of the corridor, “Enough to do whatever it takes?”

“Yes.”

There were voices coming from beyond the door. Amane, laughing, so light and beautiful it made her chest ache. “Enough to kill him?”

Nene’s hand closed around the doorknob, and she heard Kou bickering with Mitsuba—something about his tie. She opened her mouth. Nothing came out.

 Tsukasa’s voice dropped low as he leaned in and murmured into her ear once more, “He loves me, Nene-chan. And he killed me. Do you love him the same?”

Hanako-san, Hanako-san, are you there?

The door swung open under her touch, and Nene stepped inside.

This dressing room, much like her own, was shot through with gold from the high windows, reflecting off the mirrors and sending oozing sunlight across the hard floors. Leaned against the windowsill and backlit by the sun, Amane had his arms crossed, laughing while Mitsuba forcibly adjusted Kou’s tie for him.

“It’s a Windsor knot, not a damn noose, you—” Mitsuba stopped, stared.

Kou straightened up, “Senpai?” His gaze fell on Tsukasa, and Nene watched his expression sour, “What the hell are you—”

Tsukasa smirked, “She wanted to see him!”

“Nene?” Amane straightened, “What’s wrong?”

“I—” Her face felt hot. The tears wouldn’t stop.

Amane moved across the room and held her face in his hands, “Hey now, what’s all this?” he looked up at Tsukasa, “What brought this on?”

“I was just giving her a wedding present,” Tsukasa chirped. Amane frowned. In the afternoon sun, he looked so solid. Stalwart. Real. His hands were warm against her cheeks. Nene’s fist clenched around the hilt of her knife.

Mitsuba noticed the movement, eyes drawn to the sheen of metal, and sucked in a tight little breath, “No—wait—”

“Mitsuba!” Tsukasa said, bright and airy, as if he were discussing the weather, “Nene-chan and I have been talking.”

“Wait—”

“And we’ve decided—”

“Tsukasa-kun, you said—” Mitsuba sounded terrified, but Tsukasa spoke over him like he wasn’t even there.

“We’re gonna send everybody home!” He turned and smiled at Mitsuba, wide and toothy and dangerous, “Isn’t that nice?”

 Kou stepped between Tsukasa and Mitsuba, arm outstretched like he was holding a rabid animal at bay, “Hey, hey—what’s going on?” he looked desperately at Nene, “Senpai? What’s happening? What’s he talking about? Are—are you calling off the wedding or something?”

But Nene only had eyes for Amane. Amane, whose hands tightened around her face as something shifted in his posture—a sudden injection of iron into his spine. As she watched, the light in his eyes hardened, grew angrier, more tired. He had his gaze trained on her, searching her face like she would vanish if he dared to look away, like he’d never really seen her before, like if he wasn’t careful, he’d never get to look at her again, “What happened?” he asked her, solemn and quiet, “I don’t understand—what do you need me to do?”

Tsukasa, busy leering at Mitsuba over Kou’s shoulder, swiveled his head around like an owl at the sound of his brother’s voice, “Ah! Amane! There you are!”

Amane ignored him. Focused entirely on Nene, he brushed her tears aside with the pads of his thumbs, and the light in his eyes was almost like panic, “Tell me what’s wrong. Tell me what’s wrong, and I’ll fix it. I promise—”

“Shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep, Amane!” Tsukasa sang. Amane tore his gaze away from her to shoot a venomous look at his brother.

He looked so much like him that it hurt. He was him. But he wasn’t. He wasn’t.

Nene’s hand shook. Her field of vision narrowed, “I’m sorry,” she gasped. The words punched out of her, barely audible. All of Amane’s attention snapped back to her in an instant.

“Hey. Hey,” he tipped Nene’s face up to his by force and looked deep into her eyes, “Yashiro, listen to me—”

Something in Nene’s chest ignited at the sound of her name. Her surname. Because Amane had never called her that before. Had slid seamlessly from Yashiro-san, into Nene-chan, into just Nene over the nearly ten years they’d been together. It was as if he’d been programmed to never call her that, because Shijima had known she would never be able to stand hearing that name from his mouth. She’d known, right from the start, what it would do to her if she heard it.

It broke her.

Nene had no idea when she’d stepped so close to him, had no idea how her hand had found its way into his hair. Only that it was there, now, clutching tight, yanking his head back as she slammed the knife between his ribs. There was no resistance. It required no effort. As easy as putting a letter into the mail slot.

Amane grunted. His skin was warm against her hands.

She pulled the knife out, adjusted her angle, and stabbed again. Again. Again. He gurgled—something that might have been her name. Kou was yelling, and Mitsuba sobbed in terror, but it was white noise. Drowned out by the thundering rush of her pulse in her ears.

Somewhere far away, she heard Tsukasa laughing.

Amane’s body lurched in her grip. One hand went for the knife, the other shoving against her heaving chest. His attempts to push her off him faltered and she stumbled. The blood that surged through her fingers blazed with heat.

Wrong.

Wrong.

Wrong.

They hit the floor, all bared teeth and clutching hands. “Yashiro,” he gasped, “s-stop—” Something in his chest rattled, and Nene sobbed around the fingers clawing at her face. Palm flat to her cheek, forcing her to expose her throat, aim out of the corner of her eye.

“I love you,” she whimpered, and slammed the knife home again, “I love you. I’m sorry, I love you—”

She wasn’t sure how many times she stabbed him before the struggling stopped. Just that it did. And then he was still.

Nene knelt over his waist with her face pressed into the crook of his shoulder, weeping hysterically as she shoved her knife into him, over and over. She couldn’t stop. She was in perpetual motion, after so long standing still. Her arm moved without her permission, disregarding the searing ache building up in her shoulder, and there was blood in the floorboards and blood on her hands and blood smeared red across the white of her dress.

The blade slipped from her soaking fingers, and Nene was left purposeless, clinging to his shirt with bloody hands as she wailed and slammed her fists against his chest in her impotent fury.

“There there, Nene-chan,” she heard the rustle of fabric as Tsukasa knelt beside her and lifted the knife out of Amane’s blood, “You did such a good job…just a little longer. I’ll take care of the rest, okay?”

Behind her, there was a sudden scuffle. Kou snarled, and Mitsuba screamed. An impact. The sound of Kou’s head making thunderous contact with the floor. A second, squishier sounding impact and Mitsuba’s pleading sobs cut off with a wet sort of gasp.

Silence.

The dark of her eyelids consumed her.

In the dark, she heard the faint sound of dripping water.

Someone cleared their throat. Nene whimpered. She didn’t want to move. She couldn’t bear to let Amane go. She owed him that, at least. Owed it to the man she loved to hold onto him for as long as she could. Just so he would know how much she loved him.

“…You’re getting your tights wet.”

Nene opened her eyes. Amane was gone. Everyone was gone. Just Nene, kneeling in the fetal position on a cold tile floor, in a puddle of water about ankle deep. She stared down at her hands. Smaller than she remembered. And covered in tiny, iridescent scales.

“Where—”

“Just sit up, please,” the voice said, “you look ridiculous.” Nene looked up. Sitting a few feet away, considering the contents of a sizeable easel in front of her—Shijima. Her brown hair wrestled into braids; glasses perched on the end of her nose. She looked tired. Exhausted. Deep blue shadows scored into the skin under her eyes, as if pressed there by a pallet knife.

Nene wiped her nose, “What’s going on?” Her voice was high—she sounded smaller. And when she looked down at herself, she saw that she was wearing her school uniform again. It felt like a dream. It felt like waking up.

Shijima sighed and turned to face her, “You got what you wanted. Took you long enough. To be honest, I was starting to think you really didn’t have it in you.”

“Have it in me?” oh. Her stomach lurched. That was right. She. She’d just killed someone. She’d just killed Amane. Bile surged up her throat, and Nene gagged. Wordlessly, Shijima passed her an empty rag bucket and waited as Nene heaved herself quiet, huge, gagging sobs punctuating every lurch of her shoulders.

Huddled on the floor of the boundary, Nene wept. Shijima checked her watch.

“Are you done?”

“I killed him,” she croaked, “I killed him…”

“He wasn’t real,” Shijima said, as if that would help anything.

“He was!” Nene snarled. She burned; chest full of a hot kind of anger at the cool, impassive note in Shijima’s voice. The blank canvas of her face. “He was real! You made him! You don’t make illusions!”

“Don’t I?” Shijima raised an eyebrow at Nene quizzically.

“No!” Nene scrambled to her feet and grabbed the nearest canvas—a portrait of one of Nene’s classmates, settled into contrapposto as she looked out the window of the art room, watching the soccer team practice through the glass, “She is real. This,” Nene threw her arm wide to encompass the boundary, “is real! I’m real, and like it or not, you’re real, too! You make real things!”

“I make fictions,” Shijima corrected, and turned back to her canvas, “nothing of weight. Nothing of value. Just air.”

“Shijima-san,” Nene snapped, “you make things that matter. You make things that are true. You—” she gulped in a searing breath to try and regain her composure, “you make art. And art matters. Fictions matter. Sometimes—sometimes they’re all we have. I was in there for years. So—listen to me!” Nene grabbed Shijima’s chair and turned it forcibly to face her, the boundary echoed with the shriek of wood on tile, “I loved him. That was real. And—and—” Shijima gaped up at her, eyes wide. Nene shuddered as the strength left her legs, and she slumped to her knees. Exhausted.

Hesitantly, as if she was afraid to touch her, Shijima peeled Nene’s hands from the arms of the chair and returned them to her. Her voice, when she spoke, was tight. Small, “I’m…sorry. I’m so sorry.” Nene looked up at her and saw a strange sheen in her eyes. Shijima swallowed thickly, “I’m sorry that I did this to you. I—I’m sorry that my work has caused you such pain.”

Nene grabbed her knee, the nearest thing she could reach, “No! No. It was lovely. Up until the end, I mean—I was…so happy. It was wonderful.” She sniffled and shot Shijima a wobbly smile, “Thank you. I just. You make such beautiful things.”

Shijima blinked, lips parted in gentle astonishment before the mask came back down. She shook herself. Sat up straighter and surreptitiously dabbed at her eyes with the back of her hand, “Yes. Well. You—you’re very welcome, I suppose. But—anyway.” She cleared her throat and leaned over to scoop up a fat sketchbook. Passed it to Nene, “Here. Just…get it over with. I’m sure Number Seven is looking for you, and I don’t want to have to talk to that twerp any more than I have to.”

Her heart did a funny bit of acrobatics at the idea of seeing Hanako again. He would probably be angry. But—but that was her job! He wasn’t the one trapped in a painting for who knew how long! Speaking of.

“Shijima-san?” Nene asked, almost afraid of the answer, “How long…?”

“Oh,” Shijima did some quick math, “About a month. I think. Don’t worry, though. It will be as if you were never gone. Humans hardly ever notice these kinds of things.”

A month. It was a long time to be gone. It was nothing. Her mind spun, trying to compress ten years into a month. How fast did that average? How long would it have taken her to get old and die? Would she have gotten old? Or would she have hit a stasis point somewhere around thirty and lived the rest of her life for the rest of time, unaware that anything out of the ordinary was happening?

“Don’t think about it too hard,” Shijima said, “you’ll give yourself a headache.”

Nene nodded. Wordlessly, she peeled off the seal on the book, and watched it crumble to ash in her hands.

It was evening when she stepped out of the fourth boundary of Kamome Academy. Nene winced as the sunset slapped her—it had been very dark in Shijima’s studio. She didn’t know where Kou and Mitsuba had been dumped, but Shijima had assured her that they were fine.

Somehow, Nene doubted it. She wasn’t fine. How could Kou be fine? Going through the same thing as her? How could Mitsuba be fine? Having to watch as Kou and Nene forgot all about their lives right in front of him. Staying with them long after they forgot who he really was. When no one else would. Being—and she was assuming here, she’d had her eyes closed at the time—murdered by Tsukasa at Nene’s behest. Or was it more at Tsukasa’s behest? She wasn’t sure anymore. It all felt so foggy and far away.

Nene kept it together past the Misaki stairs, devoid of any sign of Yako. Kept it together all the way to the old building. Up the stairs, all the way to the third floor.

She stopped.

Hanako had posted up outside the bathroom, hands folded neatly behind his back, one foot tapping agitatedly against the floor. He looked exactly like he should. Exactly how she remembered. Short. Irritating. Beautiful.

He saw her round the corner and froze. His face grew stern. “You sure took your time, Yashiro. It’s bathroom day. I had to—”

“No.”

Hanako blinked, “W-what?”

Nene fisted her hands in her skirt and bit her lip hard, “You can’t—We’re not doing this.”

“Doing…what?”

“This!” Nene gestured at him, “I’m not doing this! You—you can’t just pretend like everything’s fine! Like you didn’t just—Like—You locked me away, Hanako-kun!”

His jaw tightened, “I see.”

“No, you don’t!” Nene blinked hard, simultaneously exasperated that she was crying again, and impressed that she even had so many tears in her body. She’d already cried a lot. “You don’t understand, you. You left me there! You never came back! It’s not fair! I was there for so long! I had to—” she almost choked on another sob, “I killed somebody!”

“Yeah,” he said, floating closer idly. A boat on a lazy river, “I know about that part. I—well. Tsukasa said something about a wedding so naturally, I was curious and—”

Horror roiled in Nene’s stomach. How Amane’s face had changed at the end. The way he’d looked at her. Called her Yashiro. The urgency in his voice. Ah! Amane! There you are! She felt sick. Her knees gave out. She slumped heavily against the wall and slid down to the floor.

“I killed you.” she gasped, “I killed you. I—” Nene buried her fingers in her hair and tried desperately to control her frantic breathing. She was going to hyperventilate. She’d pass out. It would be embarrassing. She’d killed him.  

Hanako’s feet landed on the floor without a sound, “Yashiro,” he said, high and worried. Nene wrapped her arms around herself and shuddered. He paced closer, “I-it’s okay! I’m not upset about—I mean, once you die the first time, doing it again is a piece of cake! E-easy peasy! You know me, I bounce back, I—you didn’t…hurt me or anything…”

A high, keening noise wound its way up her throat and past her teeth. How could he miss the entire point so immensely? How?

She heard him sigh, “Why—you shouldn’t have—I just—Look at me.” he crouched down in front of her and took her chin in his hand. Pulled her face up to him, and the mournful weight of his gaze pierced her. His mouth twisted, eyes searching hers, “Weren’t you happy?”

“Of course, I was happy!” She sobbed, “Of course, I was! I was a kindergarten teacher! I taught reading and—and language arts, and every night I came home, and we would have dinner and watch movies and—” her voice cracked, and she reached out and grabbed the hem of his gakuran, every word punctuated by a gasping sob, “and I—was—happy!”

“Then why—”

“Because I missed you!” she wailed, “I missed you so terribly and I couldn’t remember who you were or why I needed you and—and—” her free hand reached up and clasped tight around his wrist as he tried to pull his hand away from her face, “Do you know what that’s like?” she tugged on his arm. Hanako yelped as she yanked him off balance. Slapped a palm down on the floor to catch himself before he could fall on top of her, a sad reflection of their stance at their first meeting, when he’d backed her into that classroom wall and crawled practically into her lap in an effort to fluster her as much as he could. In exchange, you’ll give me…Your labor!

There was no punchline this time. Hanako’s face twisted in distress, his nose inches from hers, “But—I was there.”

“You weren’t,” her grip tightened around his wrist, relieved beyond measure at the chill of his skin, the lack of a pulse beneath her fingers. “You really think I can’t tell the difference between you and Amane-kun? Because I can. Even after I forgot—I knew. I knew there was something wrong and I kept having these nightmares and I thought I was going crazy!”

Hanako scoffed, “I thought you said you were happy with—”

“I was! I was so happy. I loved him,” Hanako’s eyes widened, his cheeks and ears flooded with color, but Nene kept talking, “I loved him so much. But…I couldn’t love him more than you.”

He gaped at her. Completely at a loss.

“And it wasn’t fair to him to make me do that, Hanako-kun! It wasn’t fair to either of us! Because it was cruel and awful of you to trap me in there, where I would fall in love with him, but still be missing you—because I wasn’t really growing up, was I? I was just…stuck. In a happy dream, forever!” she finally let go of his wrist and took his face in her hands the instant he tried to pull back, making sure he couldn’t get away from her, no matter how hard he tried, “I loved him so, so much,” She sniffled, staring into his eyes, begging him to understand, “but I chose you.”

If he’d been alive, she was certain that his face would have burned her with how red he was. But Hanako was dead. And stubborn. He frowned, “I don’t understand why—I mean—it was for you! You just had to stay there, and you could live—”

“Look at me, Hanako-kun!” She squeezed his cheeks and dragged him even closer, knocking his hat off his head in the process, “I’m still fifteen! I lived ten years in there, and I’m still fifteen! I didn’t change. I didn’t grow! The last half of puberty wasn’t real—and that sucks a lot, I’m not looking forward to doing that again—but I’m still exactly the same! Is that what you wanted for me? Is that a life?!”

Hanako’s face opened, and Nene saw a flash of horror spark bright in his eyes as he reeled away from her, “Of course not,” he hissed, “Of course not, I—” he bundled her into his arms and crushed her to his chest, and she could feel his hands shaking as his thumb worried little circles into her back.

He was so small.

“Of course not…”

Nene clung to him; her fingers dug deep into the fabric of his uniform. She didn’t want to move an inch—couldn’t bear to. Because she was finally here, and Hanako—his shoulder already wet from her tears, his arms around her as she trembled—was the only anchor she had left to reality.

She wept and refused to let go. Because he was here. Translucent and ghostly and impossibly, solidly real. And for all that her life was something out of a nightmare, the boy in her arms was not. He was real. He was right. She was home.