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There are three important things to know about Nene Yashiro and Amane Yugi.
One. They're best friends. Have been throughout their shared childhood.
Two. They both have an undeniable crush on each other. Though that hardly stops either of them from denying it anyway.
Three. They'll never speak with each other again.
Rather, Amane Yugi will never speak with anyone again.
The mortician made sure of that when they sewed his mouth shut.
Nene has an idea of what they do to dead bodies. During a more “edgy” phase of her life, she had looked up the morbid details. She knows about the strings and wires they run through the gums and nostrils to set the mouth. She knows about the glue and eyecaps they use to close the eyelids in place. She knows that they pretty up the face with makeup to remedy the pallor of dead flesh.
Maybe that's why it's so painfully obvious to her. Maybe she just knows what to look for as she peers into the casket.
It's Amane. There's no doubt about that. But it's not her Amane. His hair is too neat. His mouth is too small. His skin is too rosy.
He looks too… nice.
She wants to rearrange him. Muss his hair until it's choppy and uneven. Stretch his lips into that annoying smirk. Erase the blush trying to pass itself off as the blood that no longer fills his veins.
No… Nene doesn't want this to be her last memory of Amane. This almost-Amane. This is supposed to be the last time she lays eyes on him. Why does it have to be like this?
She deserves better.
Tsukasa deserves better.
Mr. and Mrs. Yugi deserve better.
Amane deserves better.
Amane stands at the head of the viewing, a sea of black laid out before him as family and friends gather in little groups to talk amongst themselves. He half expects them all to turn their eyes to him as he just stands there front and center. They won't, though. He knows that.
Just another part of being a ghost that he has to get used to.
The lack of presence is nice in its own ways. There's significantly less pressure when nobody can see you. For example, he doesn't have to muster up some awkward small talk with the groups of relatives he doesn't recognize in the crowd. Doesn't have to pretend to remember the name of some uncle he hasn't seen since he was four.
Still, it's a bit unnerving being right in front of everyone without actually being right in front of them.
Well, he is right in front of them. His body is on display in the casket. And if his body is there and his soul is also there—Is that what he is now? A soul?—then all the pieces are there, so yeah. He is right in front of everyone, he supposes.
Amane watches as people approach his body at their discretion, getting their one last look at him. Most are unremarkable. Solemn and quiet. A few tears here and there. Some even look to be pitying him, and he's not exactly sure how he should feel about that.
His parents had come through earlier. Before the place was filled with people. He supposes it was for the privacy. Couldn't blame them for that.
Tsukasa is in attendance but hasn't stepped near the casket. Amane doesn't expect him to. After all, they share a face. He'll be able to—or rather forced to—see Amane every time he looks in a mirror.
And then she arrives.
When Amane sees Nene approach the casket, he feels his heart skip a beat, and he makes a mental note to ruminate on the fact that he can feel skipped beats from a heart that isn't beating at all. For now, though, he's too busy eyeing Nene up and down. Her dress is all black and lacey. No sleeves. Hits just above the knee. He's sure there are actual words to properly describe the garment, but he doesn't know them. What he does know is that she looks nice. Nene always looks nice.
Hands tucked playfully behind his back, Amane takes a step forward so that the only thing separating them is the open casket. Nene continues to gaze down at Amane's dead body as he smirks. “Aw, Nene,” he coos, completely aware that she can't hear it. “You didn't have to get all dressed up just for li’l ol’ m—”
“No...” Barely a mumble, but enough to cut Amane off. “He's all wrong.”
Then, before Amane can even realize what's happening, Nene's arms rush into his casket.
She shakily pieces his bangs into the blocky segments she knows, cursing her panicked breaths for compromising her stability as she does so. Her fingers fumble around the tie on his neck until she can manage to tug it looser—Amane would never wear it so tightly—taking so much care not to let her tears soil on the nice silk. And then she moves on to dust away the makeup coloring his cheeks, but the pink stays on his face. A sob chokes out of her as Nene scrubs harder to no avail. As if the cold clamminess of death has stained the offending rouge onto his skin.
It feels so wrong. As Nene's hands fuss over Amane's body, she thinks about how this surely should be waking him and she thinks about the confused grimace he'd shoot her and she thinks about the exasperated sigh he'd heave at her explanation. And she thinks about how none of it is happening even though she keeps trying and trying and trying and—
Then she's slipping, a measly miscalculation of her hand throwing her completely off her balance. Suddenly, she's leaning over the casket, her head landing squarely on Amane's chest.
And she hears nothing.
The world around her goes quiet. As if the silence inside Amane's rib cage overpowers all other sounds. No beating heart. No breathing lungs. Nothing.
So she buries her face into his torso, grips fistfuls of his nice dress shirt, and does her best to muffle her sobs.
And she might have gone unheard if not for the dead boy standing overhead, watching in speechless horror at the outburst of grief.
“Nene,” Amane ekes out, hands trembling as they hover closer to her. “Nene, it's okay. Don't cry. I'm right here—”
It should be no surprise when his palms push past Nene's hair, through her scalp, into her skull. It should be no surprise. Yet, somehow Amane still startles, whimpering as he pulls his hand back. He looks between his transparent fingers and Nene’s head and can't help but notice her complete lack of reaction.
Again, it should be no surprise. Amane has sifted through the things he can and cannot do in this new form. He knows his limited capacity to interact with the material world.
The living world.
Her world.
Which, he realizes with a grief greater than that he holds for the loss of his own life, is separate from his own. Like a one-way mirror, where Nene's world ends and Amane's begins, so does her perception of his existence.
So really, what's the point? Why bother existing at all? If he can't exist with Nene, then what good is this afterlife?
Tears spring to Amane's eyes as he lowers his head, just inches above Nene's trembling figure. “I'm sorry, Nene,” he mutters, hands balling into fists at his sides. “I’m still here but I can't do a single thing for you. What am I supposed to do?” A shuddered sob. “Please… Just tell me what to do…”
“Don't go.”
Amane blinks his eyes wide open at the small voice below. Nene is still leaning over his body, still pressing her face to his chest, whispering choked pleas.
“I don't want you to go.”
In a rush of emotion, Amane forgets himself and tries his damnedest to put his arms around her, opting for an odd stencil of an embrace when he phases through her initially. “I won't. I'll stay.” His voice shakes as he reassures her. “I'll stay with you for the rest of your life if you want me to. Even if you live to be 100, I'll stay right here. I promise. I promise .”
He doesn't know how long they stay like that, hovering over his corpse together. Eventually, Nene’s mother comes to peel her off of the casket. She comforts Nene, ushering the poor girl away as she continues to weep.
On Nene’s other side, Amane pretends to hold her hand as they leave his funeral.