Chapter Text
A dream.
He’s in a dream.
The sky is blue here, soft clouds dancing through the air, far off and distant yet still tempting to reach out and touch. The grass is green, fine blades of it brushing gently against his bare skin, as if it’s dispelling his worries with comforting caresses. The sun is bright, beaming down on him, filling him with warmth.
The world feels soft and warm. It’s as if he’s enveloped in it—this sweet, gentle bliss. A hug that never seems to fade. The warmth everlasting. Growing within him, blossoming, tender and kind. And the world is soft and warm.
This isn’t his dream.
Yet… he’s not awake either. The real world could never be this warm—this welcoming and sweet. Not anymore.
He senses the setting around him slowly falling into place. Bit by bit, he takes note of his surroundings, as if they’re just popping up before his eyes.
He feels the rough bark of the tree he’s leaning against—but… it’s not rough at all. It feels inexplicably soft, like he’s simply sinking into the world’s softest mattress. The leaves overhead create a canopy above him, shielding him from the rays of the sun, but still allowing just enough to peek through the openings. Just enough warmth—not too much, not too little.
The colors seem to reach out to him. The world is glowing, in his eyes. Green, orange, blue, pink, purple—every color imaginable springs to life in an instant. His world is glowing.
The sounds come to him next—slowly, as if someone had raised the volume of a radio. Birdsongs from high above the trees; distant, indistinct laughter and chatter; rustling leaves; the soft breeze traveling through the air.
And a voice, familiar and warm, chimes beside him:
“Ah! Look at this flower! This one is a gardenia!”
There’s a book between them, opened up to the page depicting a gardenia flower, its white voluptuous petals delicately illustrated on the paper. There’s someone next to him—the owner of that familiar, warm voice—just slightly shorter than he is. Soft, honey hair brushes against his cheek as the figure leans closer to him, letting their shoulders rest against each other.
Sunny turns his head to this person.
He’s met with crystal blue eyes—shiny and clear, round and curious. They’re surrounded by freckles, like specks of glitter on his skin. Like powdered sugar dusted across his nose. His lips, thin and chapped from nervous gnawing, are pulled up into a smile. His mouth parts open, on the brink of speaking, and just briefly putting his childish, crooked teeth on full display.
Basil looks warm today—comforting, nostalgic. Basil, his best friend.
“Gardenias aren’t natively from here, so Fix-It rarely has them, but I’d love to take care of some one day,” Basil muses, looking back to the pages of the book. Sunny doesn’t look away. “Grandma said she’d keep an eye out for one though! They’re said to be harder to take care of, but I don’t mind a challenge, hehe.”
Basil’s hand caresses the edge of the open book, his thumb idly flipping through the pages’ corners. They’re calloused and scarred—his hands—from work and incidents in the garden. Even if he made a mistake, a scar would be left, like a chastising reminder to be more careful—to learn and care for himself just as much as his plants. They weren’t like other children’s hands. Basil’s flowers were like trophies, and his hands were the proof.
Basil’s free hand—not soft, but still full of love—reaches up to push back a lock of his hair behind his ear, honey and golden.
(In the back of his mind, Sunny feared he might have forgotten his honey-colored hair.)
“Do you think I could do it? T-take care of a gardenia, I mean. I know I’m still learning, but I think… I maybe… could…” Basil’s voice fades off at the end, as if he’s beginning to second-guess his abilities.
Sunny wonders, faintly, how nice it would be to be as loved as Basil’s flowers—to grow in his gardens, knowing you’re in good hands.
It would be pleasant, he believes. Even the rainiest, gloomiest days would feel warm. The soil would be soft, like blooming and sprouting up from a cloud. His leaves would never rot—would never tatter and fray. His roots would grow on and on, fueled by the care of that gardener’s hands. He would never wilt, his stem standing tall and proud.
He would live forever, he believes.
And Sunny believes, to grow in his gardens—in Basil’s gardens—would mean to be loved forever.
He thinks that would be pleasant.
…He thinks everything here, in the world, for once, is pleasant.
And he thinks Basil is very pleasant.
Sunny nods. “Yes,” he says. (He doesn’t recognize his own voice.)
Basil lights up at his response. “Th-thank you,” he says, a bit bashful. “Maybe I could get one for you too! O-or maybe that’d be too much of a hassle to take care of…”
Sunny would certainly try with all his might, though. (Even if these destructive hands of his cause nothing but ruin.)
The topic changes once Basil flips the page, now rattling on about the next flower that appears—marigold. Sunny listens attentively, committing every detail to memory—relishing in the way Basil’s voice seems to flow on and on like a serene river.
Sunny doesn’t remember how he got here (he’s supposed to have a great memory), but he doesn’t want to leave. Ever.
This moment will last for an eternity. The sun will never set. The breeze will never halt. The trees will never rot. The colors will never diminish. The chatter and laughter will never deafen. Sunny will never forget this warmth.
And Sunny will never be alone. (He doesn’t want to remember what it means to be alone.)
Sunny will live forever, just like how this moment will live forever.
He thinks that would be pleasant.
He thinks everything here, in this world, finally, is pleasant.
“Sunny?”
And he thinks Basil is very pleasant.
He quirks his head at his best friend. “Hm?”
Basil blinks back just briefly, before his face scrunches up in an attempt to hold back a laugh. “N-nothing,” he admits, unable to hide the joy in his tone. “It’s just… I noticed you were smiling really big. Your smile is nice,” he says so easily. “You should show it more.”
Sunny thinks Basil’s smile is better.
…Not that it’s a competition.
(But if it was, Basil would win easily.)
Suddenly, though, before he could reply, two other kids come running into their view, stopping just beneath the shade in front of them. They’re panting heavily, like they’ve sprinted miles to get here. Despite their lackluster appearance, he can easily identify these surprise visitors.
It’s Aubrey and Kel.
His friends.
“Aubrey? Kel?” Basil looks to be just as confused as Sunny feels at their seemingly urgent visit. “What are you—?”
“Guys!” Aubrey suddenly shouts out through her panting breaths. Kel seems to try to interject but Aubrey pushes him aside. “Kel keeps taking credit for my discovery and it’s not fair!” She yells.
Basil only appears more confused from her words. Sunny can’t help but feel the same. “D-discovery?” The blond repeats.
“It is fair because it’s my discovery!” Kel retorts.
“Nuh-uh!” Aubrey stomps her foot down, crushing blades of grass beneath her. “I found it first, you’re just copying me!”
“I’m not copying! You are!”
“No, you are!”
“No, you are!”
Jeez, Sunny is going to burst a blood vessel listening to these two argue. And he and Basil still don’t know what they’re arguing about either. Something about some discovery, but Sunny has no clue what it could be.
(The thought of it makes him… uneasy, somehow.)
“W-wait, what’s this discovery you’re talking about?” Basil asks the two bickering friends.
Aubrey and Kel both shut up immediately, abruptly, like someone had pressed the mute button on them. Usually, Sunny would’ve been thankful for the peace and quiet, but… not this time. This time is different. This time they seem… frozen.
And this time, they’re…
Staring.
Right at me.
Their eyes seem bloodshot. Too red and too wide to be physically possible. An intense glare, it feels, yet it seems to urge Sunny to not look away. Warning him to not look away. Sunny doesn’t know what would happen if he did.
…And I don’t think I want to find out.
There’s children laughing, playing, running around, careless. Basil still sits beside him, Sunny can sense his presence. The leaves of the tree sway gently above them.
But Aubrey and Kel are stuck staring… watching… with bloodshot eyes… glaring…
At him.
At me.
Sunny thinks he wants to scream. (No one will believe you.) Sunny thinks he should look away. (You never listen.) Sunny thinks something is wrong. (You’re in denial.)
Basil hasn’t said anything. (Am I imagining things?) As if he’s simply waiting for their response. (They’re just staring.) He’s always been a very patient person. (I think I want to scream.)
Basil has always been like that—patient and kind. His best friend.
Please say something.
…
“You’re a murderer.”
Sunny freezes.
“You are… a murderer,” Kel repeats himself, his voice uncharacteristically soft, speaking only slightly above a whisper. As if he’s speaking right into his ear.
You’re a murderer.
That… That’s not true. Something is wrong. This isn’t right. Why would he say that? Why did he say that.
He’s not supposed to say that.
“You’re a murderer.” Aubrey holds up his violin by the neck. Its strings are frayed—snapped and curled up like hideous locks of hair. The body is shattered, with chips of wood hanging on by threads. From a glance, it’s nearly unrecognizable. But Sunny recognizes it. (It’s his destruction.)
Where did she get that? She’s not supposed to have that. This isn’t right. Stop. Stop. Stop it. That’s wrong. She’s wrong. She’s lying. They’re both lying. They’re wrong. They’re wrong, they're wrong, they're wrong.
Sunny wants to scream.
…
But he just stares.
“Is that true, Sunny?”
Basil is looking at him. Basil is staring at him. (They’re staring at him—all of them. Intense glares, bloodshot eyes, wrong, wrong, wrong.)
Sunny manages to tear his eyes away from Aubrey and Kel to glance at him, but he shouldn’t have. He really shouldn’t have.
Basil’s eyes are bloodshot, wide, too wide, too intense to keep eye-contact. It burns him, that stare. It burns into his skin and eyes and body until all he knows is the heat. Until he only remembers the smell of scalding flesh. Until his insides are only smoke and ash. Basil burns him. (And maybe he deserves it.)
His smile, if you could call it that, is faint. An ugly, thinly pressed line, snapped shut as if hiding a vile trap within. More condescending than joyful. Mockery rather than warmth. Disgusting and repulsive. Wrong and wrong and wrong. Seemingly plastered on Basil’s face than it could ever be genuine. It doesn’t belong there. That is not Basil’s smile. (But maybe it’s the one Sunny deserves.)
Sunny wants to rip that look off his face. Sunny wants to go back. Sunny wants to stab his own eyes out so he can finally leave this place. Sunny wants… He wants to…
I want to scream.
…
But his voice comes out hushed.
“I…”
Basil leans closer, hand brushing against Sunny’s. He’s so cold. “You would never lie to us, right? My best friend…”
…
Sunny doesn’t answer, and Basil doesn’t say more. He simply waits for the response he’ll never receive.
Gradually, feeling returns to Sunny’s limbs. With shaky hands, he pushes the large flower book off his lap, letting it tumble to the ground with an abrupt thud. Basil doesn’t flinch—he doesn’t care. And so, all without looking away, Sunny scrambles up to his feet. He holds against the rough bark of the tree for support.
Basil quickly gets to his feet as well—Aubrey and Kel follow. Their eyes never leave him.
Sunny backs further and further away and out of the tree’s shade. Kids run by them, playing with their friends like nothing is wrong. Families stroll by, admiring the summer day like nothing is wrong. Couples set up picnics on the grass, enjoying each other’s company, but it’s all wrong. This is wrong. This is not right. They’re not supposed to do this. They’re not supposed to stare. They’re not supposed to know. Stop staring. Stop staring at me—
“Little brother?”
Sunny backs into something behind him.
“Where are you trying to go?” That voice would feel gentle and almost pleasant if it weren’t for the mind-numbing terror growing within him.
Sunny doesn’t want to turn around. (He knows better.) But spindly, cold hands are on his shoulders before he can shove them away, and he’s turned around against his will.
“Little brother,” she crouches down, speaking through her smile. “Do you remember, little brother?”
Mari.
Part of Sunny was expecting another cold, sharp glare to meet him, pinning him frozen still. Judging and calculating, picking him apart like a predator would to its prey. But not Mari. She doesn’t stare. Her eyes are shut tightly, as if they had been stitched closed lid-to-lid. She doesn’t stare at him—but in a way, he thinks that may be worse.
Her eyes never open.
But he almost finds himself begging for them to.
To look at him. To open them even the slightest bit. To move, just a twitch. To do something, anything. To respond, just a whisper. Say anything. Do anything. Please please please please. Don’t just lay there. Open your eyes. Say something. Wake up. Look at me. Look at me look at me look at me look at me look at me.
“No,” he says. This is not his voice.
Mari is not happy with his response.
“Murderer,” comes a voice from behind her. Sunny is unable to stop himself from looking. (This is not your body. You are not in control.)
Hero is standing there with the same bloodshot eyes. His eyebags droop down to his cheeks, making his face look like melting wax.
Hero is holding a jump rope.
“You are a murderer.” His mouth does not move, as if the words were simply echoed out of him, and he is nothing but a shell.
“Is it true, little brother?”
Sunny does not answer. (You are not in control.)
He tries to bring his hands up to loosen her grip on him. It doesn’t work. He cannot move. (This is not your body.) Mari’s grip tightens.
Though her eyes are closed, he can still see how her eyebrows furrow, becoming pensive and worried. Her smile is wiped away just as quickly, now replaced with a frown. It hurts to look at, but Sunny can’t look away. (Look at me.)
“Sunny… can you hear me?” Her voice seems to echo all around them. He is unable to reply (he wants to speak), but she continues anyway. “Sunny… my little brother… please listen… please hear me…” She sounds desperate. “My little brother… do not be scared… do not run… do not hide… you will only hurt yourself…” She continues on and on in this whispery tone, speaking of what seems to be warnings and reassurances. (You cannot understand her.)
But the more she speaks, her mouth begins drooping lower and lower, her jaw becoming unhinged from her skull. The cavity of her mouth is a vast emptiness—complete darkness. Whatever words she’s trying to say become slurred and mumbled. Sunny can’t understand her anymore. She looks almost… in pain. Her tone seems to turn more frantic, as if she’s realized he can’t understand anymore. As if this transformation is happening against her will. But Sunny can’t understand.
Sunny wishes he could understand.
But suddenly, her mouth shuts. The world becomes quiet once more—no more laughter, no more chatter, no more breeze. In a way, it still feels like she’s speaking. It’s only Sunny that has gone deaf—he, who decided to shut the world out. He, who has given up control of his body. He, who buried his own grave.
He, who silenced Mari.
Just then, Mari’s eyes open.
There’s nothing in them.
“Wake up—”
Sunny’s eyes fly open, and suddenly he can breathe. He has control . He sucks in deep gulps of air, as if he was just submerged under heavy waters.
He brushes his fingers against his face, sensing dried tear tracks running down his cheeks. His heart is hammering against his ears, and it’s all he can hear. A steady, heavy rhythmic beat of his heart. Thump… thump… thump. It swallows any other sounds there may have been.
The darkness of his room is suffocating. It’s the type of darkness that permeates the air, clouding his vision like a thick fog. Like black tendrils wrapping all around him—a much too cold hug.
He can still feel her frigid hands clutching onto his shoulders, digging deeper and deeper until those nails draw blood. He can still see her, images stirring within the darkness, the sight of her face contorting before his eyes. Her mouth hinged too wide to be physically possible, her face becoming elongated and morphed, her eyes—God, her eyes…
…
He doesn’t want to think about that anymore.
He pulls the covers off of him, immediately getting enveloped by the cold air. He doesn’t think he’d be able to fall back asleep after… that. He’s not sure what time it is now, and not even the moon shines through his window to tell him.
His socked-feet touch the cool, wooden floor as he moves to stand. Yet, even such a simple action leaves him panting. His heart seems to pound harder now, on the brink of breaking through his ribs. He needs to control his breathing—to calm down. Just breathe. Breathe in… and out…
In… and out…
In… and out…
In… and out…
In… and out…
In… and out…
…
It’s quiet now.
…
He sighs.
…Sunny should eat something.