Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

As usual, Toya wakes up around six thirty to the soft chime of his alarm. His mother won't start breakfast for another thirty minutes, which gives him an hour to finish a walk around the neighborhood if he wants to be back in time to eat.

Through his large balcony windows, he can already see the last oranges of sunrise beginning to disappear into the deep blue of the sky. The sunlight, already at full strength despite the hour, fills his room without needing to turn on the light, giving the gray floor tiles a faint sheen and illuminating the dark blue of his accent wall into a cool, calming color. His eyes avoid the purple fabric that lurks in the corner as he stretches, lingering instead on the binders and novels on his bookcase as he shakes off the last dregs of sleep. Idly, he wonders if Akito saw the sunrise today. He usually takes his morning run a little later on Sundays, but, well… it hasn’t exactly been a standard week.

Outside, the endless blue becomes unavoidable, only a few sparse clouds dotting the horizon, and the night chill has begun to give way to the summer heat that’s been driving their morning practices into the Sekai. The usual weekend quiet blankets the street in a sleepy hush, though he can see Amiki-san happily working in her small garden with her old portable radio, her lined face relaxed as she works. She nods silently to him when he walks past, and he returns it easily. Her old cat flicks her tail in greeting but remains where she is today, content in her sunny spot on the porch.

Around twenty minutes into his usual fifty minute route, it becomes apparent that today will be even hotter than he imagined. Sweat is beginning to stick his shirt against his back, and his chilled bottle of water is already becoming lukewarm in his hands. He stops under a tree to take a long drink, its leaves silent in the stagnant air, and considers the shortcut a few blocks ahead. Normally today’s practice would be pretty intensive, so he would cut his walk short to preserve energy, but after their battle with Taiga… 

He sighs, fidgeting with his necklace. Even if he disregards the lack of contact from the other groups, the four of them have been a bit scattered. Shiraishi’s appearance at their handful of practices has been understandably spotty since then, only occasionally appearing to check in on them. Her voice is still recovering, but, more than that, she swings widely between her usual boundless energy and a sudden, terrifying listlessness that frightened him the first time he saw it. 

Azusawa, clearly preoccupied with her partner’s condition, is repeating mistakes they fixed months ago, missing cues and switching to old harmonies. She mentioned that Shiraishi seemed to be getting better at the end of last practice, that it’s all a normal part of grieving, but Toya’s always been bad at noticing these subtleties. He's only been able to notice Akito’s after over two years of near daily practice with him. Still, if he trusts anyone to know, it’s Azusawa, so he leaves it in her hands. 

After all, he also finds himself distracted; Akito is definitely pushing himself when they’re not looking, and he's starting to show signs of overwork. 

Toya pulls out his phone. At this time, Akito is probably finishing up his morning run. It’s likely he’ll end up at Ken-san’s for breakfast, making good on his standing promise for cheap breakfast in exchange for being test subjects. Toya rarely takes advantage of it, more than happy to eat his mother’s cooking, but Akito likes being able to finish his run on Vivid Street and go straight to practice after eating. It’s not ideal, but if he makes some toast and heads right over, he might catch him there. 

Using the shortcut, it takes him only ten minutes to get home instead of the usual thirty. He calls out a greeting as he enters, the AC that washes over him in the doorway sending a shiver down his spine.

He’s met with silence.

Toya frowns, quickly stashing his shoes and moving further inside. Sure enough, his mother isn’t in the kitchen or living room. It’s good that he caught her in time to let her know he’s skipping breakfast, but unease prickles at the back of his neck. She’s usually up by now to start the rice cooker. Did she mention last night she’d be sleeping in today? She’s always made a point to mention it to him before… Trying to ignore the off-kilter feeling of a change in plans, he heads to his bedroom to change.

“Ah!” 

His mother’s soft sound of surprise makes him jump as he opens the door. She’s in the corner of his room, next to–

…Oh, his piano is uncovered. 

And on the bench next to her is his violin case. 

“I thought you’d be back later,” his mother offers apologetically, a dust rag twisted in her hands.

“I decided to grab some toast and leave early today,” he says absently. His eyes can’t seem to move off of the instruments, bright as they are in the morning sun, blinding. They feel out of place in a way the binders of sheet music still on his bookcase never have, invasive, despite being in his room as long as he can remember.

“I was just finishing up,” she assures him, a note in her voice that takes him a moment to understand as worried. She carefully shuts the fall board over the monochromatic keys, and the faded purple fabric that usually hides it is neatly reapplied, the wrinkles smoothed down by her thoughtful hand. His violin case goes back to its place beside the piano, half-covered by the fabric to obscure its shape. His mother lingers, her face changing too fast for Toya to hope to name the emotions, but she eventually moves past him without a word. A few seconds later he hears the faint sound of a door shutting.

Toya takes a long look at the corner, back to how he left it this morning. It had never occurred to him that his mother might take care of them. It should; instruments aren’t cheap, and his father hadn’t shied away from buying him what would produce the best sound. It’s good that she does. It’s a waste otherwise.

He changes quickly but hesitates to move to the living room, tethered to the looming purple shape. Almost against his will, he finds himself walking to the instruments gingerly, footsteps faint against the cold tiles. The fabric is smooth on his skin as he lifts it, and he stares at the uncovered piano. He reaches forward. 

His hands ache in anticipation, sudden and unfamiliar after these few years without it, but he doesn't waver, fingertips tracing the wood of the fallboard. They come away clean. The violin case is the same, and even the amp nearby is spotless.

Abruptly, he realizes he’s been picturing the piano and violin in that odd Sekai he and Miku went to, dusty and alone. Strange, considering the piano in his room is a standing piano and not the grand that place had enshrined in its crumbling architecture, but something about it feels more right than the reality in front of him. Why wouldn’t these instruments that he dedicated over a decade of his life to, that still make his old anger and hurt flare up for a brief moment in his chest, reflect his negligence and cowardice? 

Toya moves away from it, pulling the fabric back to hide it from view, knocked uneven from his rough handling. Miku asked what he hoped would happen to those instruments in that odd Sekai. He’s still not sure he has an answer, but then, he’s always been slow to make up his mind.

—

Akito isn’t at Ken-san’s.

“He's already over at that other place,” Shiraishi says, her ponytail swaying as gestures haphazardly to the right. He could be mistaken, but her hair is messier than usual, and the lights seem to wash her out more, making her perpetually sun-kissed skin seem pale. It would be easy to dismiss the darkness under her eyes as shadows as well, if it weren't for the lingering red in the whites of her eyes. Still, she smiles as bright as ever. If only Azusawa or Akito were here to help him; he doesn't want to overstep.

“Will you be stopping by Crase Cafe?” he settles on, careful not to sound too concerned.

Shiraishi shakes her head. “Nope.” She pats her throat, and, now that he's listening for it, he can still hear the slight rasp that peaks through in her words. “Dad said one more day of rest, and hearing the others always makes me want to sing, y’know?”

Toya smiles. “Yes, they do seem to have that effect on us. Although I feel like I can't help but want to join in when any of us sing lately.”

“Right!” Shiraishi’s smile dims a little. For a moment, it looks sad, and then something heated gives it a savage tilt, the same expression she wears before going on stage. “I don’t think anything could make me hate music,” she says softly, so quiet Toya's not sure he should've heard it.

He hums in acknowledgement, suddenly hyper aware of the phantom ache that lingers, bone-deep, in his hands. It's been years since they've ached for real, but sometimes, like this morning, he remembers the feeling so sharply that the absence of it makes them hurt, as if they’ve been reminded their default state is pain. It's odd how quickly it’s become unfamiliar. He’s much more used to a steady weight around his shoulders and a deep voice in his ear, the side of his body warm from his partner leaning against him.

He quickly pushes the thought from his head and excuses himself from the conversation, suddenly needing to be anywhere else, an odd embarrassment jolting through his system. Shiraishi waves him off with a quick “See ya!” and a fleeting smile that doesn't quite sit right on her face.

Lately, it feels like he's more aware of Akito. At school, he writes his notes and wonders if Akito will need help reviewing them. His stomach growls for lunch and he longs for the wide open sky and Akito's low cadence as much as his food. He sees a new cafe and skims the menu for the sweets before looking for himself. He anticipates when an arm will be slung around his shoulder, heat pressed against his side, or a fist held up to bump with a grin. Akito will knock gently into his shoulder, or pat his back, and the imprint of it lingers for the rest of the day, warm and comforting. He imagines hanging out with him, thoughts always drifting into formless impressions, longing for that easy warmth even as he feels a pull for something else, something additional.

He hasn't figured out what this feeling is yet. It feels…big. All-encompassing in a way he's only felt once before, back when he first quit classical music and stormed out of the house, but it's not angry like that. It’s not a fire that makes him move without thinking. It's a little nervous, a little excited, like he felt when they were going camping and he couldn't sleep, constantly buzzing under his skin.

Toya understands that he doesn’t experience his emotions like the others, immediate and effortless. He has to actively notice them, and only then he can sit, consider, and eventually name them. Once identified, he can finally consider what to actually do. It’s a constant process, a delayed reaction where he’s always a few beats behind. 

Meeting Akito expanded his world beyond its small borders, let him learn so many new emotions and recognize the more frequent ones quickly now, but this feels too big to look at. It’s as if he's finally learned how to use a map of Tokyo and memorized the familiar routes only to suddenly be handed a world map to navigate. The scale is so much more, and to try and think what he’ll have to do with it once he names the emotion makes something like fear shiver down his spine.

So he leaves it for now, looming in the back of his mind, and moves to a quiet alleyway near Weekend Garage to go to the Sekai. 

He can feel the exact moment he crosses over; the air always feels the slightest bit different here. It reminds him of the forest, as if the air pressure is just a half-step different from usual. Sunlight refracts off the buildings in unique shapes, dotting the chaotic streets in vivid shades like stage lights, casting the already colorful scene with an even larger palette. It's pleasantly warm, and a faint breeze whistles quietly through the gaps in the buildings, cooling the lingering sweat on his neck. Textless signs all tilt away from him, subtly leading him towards Crase Cafe, and he takes his time on the walk, content to let thoughts drift shapelessly in the quiet afternoon.

Gradually, a familiar singing voice begins to reach his ears. It echoes through the streets, deep and steady, the skill on display only becoming more and more apparent the closer he gets. The stress underlying it, however, is obvious in the breathing and harsh cut-offs. The singer’s frustration tugs at him, right in his chest, although the other has long become adept enough to hide it from all but the sharpest ears.

It’s not hard to guess what Akito’s thinking about. Their battle with Taiga was bad, but they lost more than that. Akito worked hard to figure out how to get all their different groups to gel together, so to watch that glue fall apart in front of him, to be met with silence in the aftermath… 

Akito's voice cuts off abruptly in the middle of a phrase, the unresolved chord hanging heavy in the air. Crase Cafe stands at the end of the street, but Toya stops short. Akito's been relying on him more and more, but hasn't said anything since their battle. Is it time to broach the subject instead of waiting for him to approach?

After a moment of thought, turning his necklace over between his fingers, Toya turns right, going towards his partner’s voice. 

The signs slowly bend as he walks, haltingly taking him to his new destination. He cuts through narrow streets he doesn’t remember seeing before, shadowed between tall walls, the sound of his footsteps echoing. The graffiti on the unremarkable storefronts seem to shift as he passes, but can find no pattern in their new shapes. In the distance, he starts to hear Rin and Len. Their voices rise and fall in conversation, too far to make out their words, but growing louder by the minute; he must be getting close to Akito if they’re nearby.

He turns a corner, and Rin’s voice comes sharply into focus, loud and worried. “Len! Look where you're going!”

Toya quickens his pace towards the sound, squeezing through one last narrow gap in the buildings, bursting through the other side in time to hear two voices yell out. There's a blinding flash–

And Toya is alone on a silent street. 

He whips his head back and forth. Len and Rin’s voices are no longer audible. His eyes catch on a faint glimmer to his right, like a coin flashing in the sun, but it persists unnaturally long. Stomach sinking, he hurries over. 

A ball of light sits innocently on the ground, pulsing as steadily as a heartbeat, no bigger than an apple. It doesn’t stir as he kneels next to it for a better look, the light never growing dim enough to make out its actual shape. He leans even closer. Its constantly shifting boundary makes it almost appear to waver, like the distorted air that comes off hot asphalt, but there's no heat. 

He sees rather than feels his fingertips a few centimeters away from the light. He snatches it back, startled.

Closing his eyes, he concentrates on the feeling in his body. This gentle pull low in his gut, this itch in his fingers…it's fainter than it was the first time, but there’s no mistaking it. This is a fragment of a feeling, another half-formed Sekai that will fade into nothingness.

Fear rushes through him, sharp and nervous. Miku said they weren't usually dangerous, but the one Toya found had been. What are the odds the one Akito's found would be as well? 

He hesitates, looking from the fragment, down the street, and back to the fragment. Rin and Len are probably in there, but it's certainly not as reassuring as it would be if it were Meiko-san. Does he have time to go get her or Miku? Should he? It's a long shot, but…

“Hello?” he calls, but none of the other virtual singers respond. He’d been hoping that Luka-san happened to be wandering nearby. 

That big feeling in his chest squeezes his heart, compounding with the pull in his gut, and his eyes lock onto the light. He's been in one before. Surely he could help?

He's already reaching forward to let his fingertips brush

As though snapped to awareness mid-thought, Toya finds himself standing at the front gates of Kamiyama High. Classmates rush past him like fish, a blur of colorful activity, and a tidal wave of noise overtakes him as shouted plans sink into laughter sink into complaints of homework sink into laughter. For an instant, in the chaos around him, his eyes catch on the silver earrings of a student he doesn’t recognize. They wink once, twice in the sunlight before disappearing in the crowd, lost.

In another instant, he’s alone. The trees behind him creak in the wind, bare branches swaying as dust and sand kick up around them. In front of him, the buildings across the street groan in solidarity, a little more of their already crumbling exteriors giving way and disappearing into the breeze; he winces in sympathy. The dry ground makes a soft shhhh as grains of sand gently shift over the surface, speckling the destroyed sidewalk beneath his feet, and the heat beats down mercilessly even with the sun hidden behind dark clouds, an oppressive shroud that makes his limbs feel weighted.

It feels like he’s forgetting something.

He wavers at the crossroads outside the school, looking left and right like someone will appear to direct him, but the scenery remains unchanged. The school behind him is quiet, no lingering noise from clubs or teachers, its windows black.

To the right he feels a tug deep in an instinctual place, a muscle he’s so unused to using that he balks a little at the sensation. He considers it, turning it over in his head. It feels like he imagines the moon feels to the tides, a persistent coaxing into movement, but the unfamiliarity of the feeling makes it hard to name for certain. Trying to remember what’s over there makes him draw a blank– has he ever gone that direction?– and he hesitates. 

The left, he remembers, is home. The decision is easy.

A few steps on his chosen path, a sudden chill rakes down his back, like stepping out of a warm tent on a cold forest morning. He freezes, dread coiling hollow in his chest, and his hands clench at the sensation, creaking. 

Are you running away? the wind whispers, unfamiliar and taunting. Are you content to stop in your tracks? 

Toya remains still, the wind barely felt on his skin over the cold. He's never been one to fall for taunts.

The sand shifts around him, confused. The trees sway in a question. It feels like the world regards him with mild shock, like a dog that suddenly decided not to do a trick anymore, or maybe an ant that suddenly started talking on the kitchen counter. The pull deep inside Toya clenches in tension, drawing him tight as a bow string, braced for a blow–

And then it relaxes. He stumbles a bit at the abrupt release, rubbing at his sore fingers as the heat of the world rushes back. He glances one more time at the right path, struggling weakly to picture what’s beyond the way one more time, but it’s just another blank. 

Turning back around, unable to completely remove the empty feeling of loss from his chest, he starts back home.

–

As usual, Toya wakes up at five to the harsh vibration of his alarm. His mother will not start breakfast for another two hours, which gives him an hour each to practice violin and piano.

The sky outside is still dark, and the thick clouds blanketing the horizon block the soft colors of dawn in an inky blue, tinting his room drearily. The dark blue of his accent wall turns an almost gray color in this light, making the whole room take on a muted, monochromatic tone. Only the piano and the violin case come alive under the little sun that leaks inside, and the well-maintained materials of both catch the light invitingly.

He walks to his closet gingerly, moving carefully over the tiles. A few show how openly brittle they are, hair-line fractures spider webbing over the solid gray, but others hide that fragility well enough to demand constant effort not to break holes into his floor. He tries not to look directly at any of them; the sight pokes at something inside him, painful and sharp. 

He stretches his fingers and hands first before he opens his violin case, always stiff and sore from practicing the day before no matter what he does. Then he applies rosin, and, after a quick tuning, runs through scales almost absent-mindedly, mind still a little foggy from sleep. 

Stifling a yawn, he frowns. He hasn't been this sleepy since he first started this routine. As easily as he plays Marmotte from memory for his warm up, it feels as if he hasn’t heard it for a long time despite it being his go-to piece for years. He does his best to focus on it, mindful of the accents and articulation, but running through it still isn’t enough to completely shake the odd exhaustion.

Troubled, he turns his attention to the actual piece he’s been working on, one of Vieuxtemps’ violin concertos. It’s getting to the point where it feels– not easy, but known, something he can keep confidently under his belt. He’ll play through it twice this morning, note down the problem spots, and revisit after school.   

There are trophies somewhere in the house that his mother keeps from competitions he’s won. He understands, in a detached way, that he's good at this, and there's confidence in the way he readies his bow despite the tiredness that drags at his eyelids.

Maybe all those trophies were somehow a fluke.

He plays like an amateur desperately trying to sight read well above his skill level. He stops in places, dizzied by notes he knows he knows, hesitating over chords he has clearly marked in his notes. His fingers are always a hair too slow, bending his notes shrilly up into their correct places, and the piece takes longer than it should to play. The second time through is better, but it’s still rough, like he's starting over from square one. Dutifully, robotically, he notes down the problem areas– three times as many as he’s used to– and numbly puts his violin away. His hands shake a little, and his fingers creak in warning.

By now the light coming through the windows is a little stronger, the only indication the sun has completely risen. His mind drifts through an impression of someone running, a feeling so heavy it makes the floor under him crack, flooding through his body for the briefest flash of a second, and then it’s gone. There is no noise except his breathing and footsteps as he moves to the piano, broken by the occasional warning snap under his feet. 

Seated on the piano bench, just as he does every morning, he goes through another round of stretches and quick scales before moving on to his warm up piece.

Unlike every morning, he fumbles his way through the prelude of Bach’s Prelude and Fugue in C Major, fingers tripping over each other like two uncoordinated dancers. Even after another round of stretches, his hands feel heavy, wrong, unpracticed in a way that makes them feel detached, floating a million miles away. They seem to freeze before he starts the exercise again, to hang awkwardly over the keys like a child still learning the hand placement before settling in the correct position.

He tries to shake it off, but the whole hour is spent on stilted exercise pieces until he finally gives up, staring at his hands in his lap. He rubs at calloused fingertips, surprised at the deep, slightly discolored indents he finds from the violin strings. It’s been years since they’ve been so pronounced, daily practice building up thick calluses until only hours of practice can impact them. How is a single hour biting into him like it’s been years since he touched the strings?

His thumb snags on the pad of his right index finger, and he frowns at the feeling of something loose against his skin. It takes only a moment for his nail to slip under it, freeing it, a flesh-colored chunk falling into his lap like a stone. He sighs, placing it on the desk nearby, and pats the new bloodless hole in his finger. Shallow cracks extend around it, but pushing on it doesn’t make them spread further. It’s not big enough to be worth the hassle of taping it.

Breakfast is waiting by the time he emerges from his room. His mother doesn't talk much beyond the usual morning greeting, but her eyes linger on him as they eat, concerned. Most likely it's from his clumsy piano playing, since the sound can easily be heard in the living room, but whatever she sees isn't enough to comment. She simply tells him where his bento is on the way out and wishes him a good day.

He bids her goodbye, opening his mouth to remind her that after school he’ll be meeting with

He closes his mouth. No, he's always home for dinner. More than that, he always comes directly home from school. 

“Was I supposed to pick anything up for dinner?” he asks her instead, probing at the blankness in his mind like a loose tooth. Nervous energy jitters through his body, like a shot of espresso kicking in, and the impression of a face flashes through his mind, heavy with something, before slipping through his hands, gone.

His mother shakes her head. “No, I don't think so. Why?”

Toya mirrors the motion, something uneasy coiling in his gut. “I feel as though I forgot something,” he says, patting his pockets. His phone and wallet are there.

“Your father will be missing dinner tonight,” his mother offers, and Toya nods. That must be it, but it still doesn't feel right, like a note that's the slightest bit sharp. Something of his dissatisfaction must show on his face, because his mother reassures, “I’ll send you a message if I remember. Be safe.”

At a loss, Toya offers a respectful goodbye and starts to school.

–

As usual, school is quiet and simple. He takes his notes, and he eats lunch alone at his desk.

Unlike usual, his hands seem to fidget as he eats, and his eyes keep drifting to the window to look outside. It takes until he's finishing the last of his rice to recognize it as restlessness, that he’s longing to be outside, surrounded completely by the light blue of the sky that's only broken by the green, chain link fence that lines the roof and the sound of a laugh from

He blinks and shakes his head, dislodging the image. From the second story, he can still make out the familiar cracked earth that always seems to be pleading for rain, the decaying buildings beginning to show their skeletons. Dust and sand rap along the windows, a constant ambient noise like salt falling on a plate underscoring the whole day. The restlessness settles as class resumes, but he still finds himself sneaking glances at the window between teachers.

Toya finds himself standing at the front gates of Kamiyama High. The heat is just as brutal as it was yesterday, and the wind is stronger today, swirling up dust and sand in weak tornados that sputter out after a few tense seconds. Classmates move around him like fish, a tidal wave of noise overtaking him as the end of the day rush pushes them outside, shouted plans blurring into laughter blurring into complaints of homework blurring into laughter, edging on unbearable. For an instant, in the chaos around him, his eyes catch on the gold earrings of a student he doesn’t recognize, a small hoop and stud that wink once, twice in the sunlight, before disappearing in the crowd, lost.

He checks his texts one more time; his mom still hasn't remembered anything. He pats his pockets; nothing is out of place.

In another instant, he’s alone. The trees behind him creak in the wind, bare branches swaying as dust and sand kick up around them. In front of him, the buildings across the street groan in solidarity, a little more of their already crumbling exteriors giving way and disappearing into the breeze, making him flinch in sympathy.

“Toya-kun?”

He startles a little at the voice, not having heard any footsteps. There's a mechanical quality to it that sounds otherworldly, so much so he doesn't expect to find anyone actually talking to him, but he abruptly meets the clear blue eyes of a woman a little shorter than him. Her long pink hair swirls around her like a dust storm, wild and untamed, and her carefree smile eases some of the surprise of her appearance. Her large hoops flash in the light, drawing his eye as they sway. There's something familiar about her, like seeing an old classmate from elementary school, unrecognizable except for little flashes of memory: laughing on a bright street corner, camping in a forest, singing in a cafe.

Except he’s never done any of those things.

“I'm sorry, miss. Do I know you?” Toya asks.

“I think so, but I can’t seem to remember how,” she says, a thoughtful hand on her chin. “Was it on the usual street?”

“‘Usual street?’” Toya shakes his head. He doesn’t have a ‘usual street.’ He doesn’t go anywhere except school. “Maybe you’re thinking of someone else?”

She smiles softly, but it's undercut by the way her eyes seem to dissect him. He shifts uncomfortably as she continues to regard him, head swaying to the side as she thinks, unbothered by her hair whipping into her face in the wind. 

“That’s what it is!” she says suddenly. “You're alone today. Where are —?” Her voice is carried off with the wind. 

Toya frowns, leans closer. “I'm sorry, who?” he says, heart suddenly beating fast, heavy with a feeling he's never felt.

“You should hurry,” she says simply, like that explains anything. She's turning away from Toya, going to the right of the crossroads, and he reaches forward to grab her hand, to clutch her to him and have her repeat the names– what was his name–

The ground beneath him pitches dangerously, and his foot sinks down a few centimeters. He barely manages to scramble backwards before the chunk of earth disappears, the dirt around it crumbling after.

Heart hammering, he can’t see the woman through the dust kicked up by the earth. He frantically moves further down the sidewalk in the direction she was going, but there’s no one. It’s just empty, crumbling buildings and dry desert slowly sinking into each other for endless kilometers.

He traces a hand down his chest, surprised to find it still whole as his heart pounds brokenly.

-

As usual, the first hour home is spent on homework. Then it's two hours of violin, dinner, and another two hours of piano before finishing up any lingering homework and going to bed.

The two hours of violin aren't nearly as painful as this morning’s practice. He quickly irons out the simpler sections that tripped him up this morning, but that stiff feeling lingers in his hands through it all. Those more complex phrases he knows he'd mastered before slur together instead of sounding crisp and distinct, and dread makes him even sloppier as the end of the second hour approaches.

Dinner, as always, is quiet. His mother seems more concerned, but she still doesn't say anything about his playing. It's a mercy that his father isn't here. His chopsticks tremble in his grip, fingers exhausted and beginning to fail him, but his mother doesn't comment when one clatters to the table. Still, the food is good, and her voice is soothing, a balm on his fraying nerves. By the time he clears the dishes, waving off his mother’s insistence she doesn’t need help, he feels lighter.

Going back into his room makes him suddenly, violently aware of gravity. His steps are quiet as he moves towards the piano, uneven as he listens for the tiles breaking beneath his feet, somehow more fragile in this increased pressure.

Sitting gingerly on the piano bench, he considers his hands again. A few more small pieces of his fingers have broken off during the day: a small chip in his pinkie finger where he hit against a desk, a hair-line crack across his left ring finger where he pressed on the violin strings too hard, another shallow hole on his thumb he didn’t notice before. He can’t tell if the hole in his index finger is slightly bigger, the cracks longer. 

After a moment, he brushes it off. This has happened before, a casualty of the craft, and has eased as he’s gotten older. He no longer cries when his fingers throb or lock up on him. The medical tape is only used when he would otherwise harm an instrument or himself, and the cracks aren’t spreading so far as to be a concern. A night’s rest will plaster them over.

Resolved, his hands hover over the keyboard, unsure, before settling in the correct position, curved and ready. They ache with his apprehension, with his nerves, with the weight of an off-kilter day, but he has to play. He forms the first chord and presses down–

His shoulders hunch with sudden fear. There's a tremble in his hands he can’t steady, shaking against the ivory white of the keys. His eyes jerk to his window, checking to make sure it's not the world that's shaking, not a building suddenly toppling into the desert. A shiver makes his body spasm, heart fluttering like a bird in a cage. He tries to press down, but his hands won't move, won’t exert enough force to press the keys.

He pulls them back. Air rushes back into his lungs. He can breathe again. He can feel his heart thump where his hands are cradled against his chest. 

Suddenly, he feels small and ridiculous, like a child too scared to jump into a shallow pool. He played this morning! What's the issue? He reaches his right hand forward and presses down firmly on middle C.

The top half of his index finger cracks off.

Fumbling, he barely manages to keep it from falling to the floor and shattering, the note cutting off abruptly. He brings it close to his chest, instinctively curling around it, but there's no pain. The piece even moves with his other fingers, disembodied but responsive, bending at the joint.

Carefully, he moves to his desk. Inside one of the drawers is the medical tape he’s used before to cover cracked nails or bleeding fingertips. The roll is half gone, a little yellow with age, but he makes quick work taping it back on.

He considers his work, flexing his hand a few times, and his new, slightly cockedeyed finger moves in tempo with the others. A few cracks peek over the top of the tape, too long to cover completely, and the slight white discoloration around them only emphasizes the yellow tint of the tape.

He frowns. Is this what it's supposed to look like? 

Shaking his head, he considers the piano. 

Immediately his body seizes, finger suddenly tingling with pain he knows can’t be there. He drums his fingers once, slowly on the surface of his desk, the vibration jolting through his broken finger into a full body jerk.

…Maybe he’ll just go back to homework for the night.

–

Before bed, as always, he stretches out his hands one last time, mindful of his loose finger. Tonight he finds himself humming as well, going through vocal cool downs he only knows from his mother's old lessons. His voice sits in his throat, eager to be used, and he frowns at the unfamiliar sensation, somehow restless despite the exhaustion that makes his body lag. Compromising, he hums more as he goes through his nightly routine, the song a catchy, bass-driven one he doesn't remember hearing. It definitely isn't the kind of music he usually listens to. It must have been playing somewhere on the way home, or maybe last week when he ran to the store for his mother. 

Only partially satisfied, he settles into bed. He plugs in his phone, unlocks the screen, and stares. There's… something’s supposed to be here, but what was it?

He sets it down and considers his crumbling hand, smoothing the tape edges back down. Just like every night, as his fingers ache, as his piano sits in darkness, as the pieces he practiced morph together into a jumbled mess in his mind, he reminds himself that he needs to stick with it, that it’s worth it, all for

His mind blanks.

There’s a reason for this– he knows there was a reason for this, why he’s still doing music. He fought with his father, and he was

Where did he go again? He was somewhere his father didn’t like, he knows that, and then

and then he stuck with music. He wasn’t going to do music anymore, but he still is. The significance of it squeezes his heart like a fist, pumps through his body, drives him to move. Faces dance somewhere in there, featureless and important, forming his foundations– and he knows with unshakable certainty he would not exist without them. A feeling tears through him, an impression of longing that feels like too much even in its diminished shape.

Why can’t he remember?

Why is he doing all this?

–

As usual, Toya wakes up at five to the loud vibration of his alarm. His mother will not start breakfast for another two hours, which gives him an hour each to practice violin and piano.

The sky outside is still dark, and the thick clouds blanketing the horizon block the soft colors of dawn in an inky blue, tinting his room a dreary shade. The dark blue of his wall turns an almost gray color in this light, swallowing the whole room in an all-encompassing monochromatic tone. Only the grand piano and the violin case come alive in the gloom, and the well-maintained materials of both catch the light, blazing like a fire.

He walks to his closet gingerly, moving carefully over the holes in the tiles. Hair-line fractures spider web over the solid gray tile completely, giving way if he puts too much of his weight in one place. He tries not to look directly at any of them; the bones of his hands throb dully. 

By the time he leaves his room for breakfast, most of his fingers have had to be taped back on.

—-

As usual, school is quiet and simple. Little bits of his fingers flake off during class as he takes notes, peppering his notebook like little flecks of salt. He tries to gather it all in an old pencil lead container, but he probably only manages to get about half inside. The rest ends up on his uniform pants. At least there isn’t so much of it that it’s visible on the classroom floor; he doesn’t want to make a mess.

It's not until the lunch bell rings he realizes he's taken next to no notes, too distracted cleaning up the debris of himself. Luckily, he's able to quickly flag down the classmate next to him and ask to copy his notes, leaving Toya to figure out how to fit the notebooks and his bento on the desk. Today's lunch isn't very messy, but he makes sure his notebook is the one any rice will fall on if his hands give out on him.

He's finished the English notes, most of his lunch, and half the math notes when a voice interrupts.

“Toya-kun?”

He starts a little at the voice. There's a mechanical quality to it that sounds otherworldly, so much so he doesn't expect to find anyone actually talking to him, but he abruptly meets the clear blue eyes of a man. There’s a spacy quality to him, a kind of half-focused gaze that betrays that his thoughts are elsewhere. His blue hair is a little messy, likely from the red headphones hanging around his neck, where the faint sound of bass can be heard. There’s a gentle smile on his face, but his eyebrows are creased like he’s worried. There's something familiar about him, like seeing an old classmate from elementary school, unrecognizable except for little flashes of memory: a chuckle over misplaced ice cream, advice about music in an alleyway, singing in a cafe.

Except he’s never done any of those things.

“Yes, Senpai?” Toya asks.

“You're eating alone today?” he asks, tilting his head.

Toya frowns. “I usually do.”

The other mirrors his frown, leaning further into the classroom. “But what about–?”

His headphones suddenly blare a loud synth chord. He flinches back, fumbling with them, the music abruptly cutting off, but it's too late. A shout rings down the hall, and the upperclassman quickly hurries in the opposite direction. A few moments later a teacher rushes after him.

Slowly, Toya goes back to his notes. He keeps an ear out, but he's not visited again. He finds himself looking out the window at the dry desert below, at the dust storms kicking up, turning the crumbling buildings across the street into an etch-a-sketch. He licks at his chapped lips, his tongue snagging on the rough skin.

…Had he made lunch plans? 

-

A face drifts into his mind as the school day drags. Orange hair with a rebellious streak of yellow. Olive eyes that blaze even in darkness. Piercings catching on sunlight. A deep voice pitched in laughter. It makes something new light up in his body, stomach fluttering, and it fades as quick as fireworks in the sky. His hands can’t stay still, flipping to the back of his notebook, trying to catch the fading sparks before they burn out completely. 

He ends up with a badly drawn face that would probably make the art teacher weep, but he doesn't know what else to do. Just looking at it makes something settle as much as it overwhelms him.

Other faces waver in his mind. Dark hair decorated with star beads and a steady grin. Blonde hair in low, neat pigtails and a nervous smile. He draws the two of them on the same page because it feels odd to see them separated. Their portraits are not much better than the first, but they feel safer, a small candle to the confusing inferno on the other page.

He has to keep brushing the flecks of his hands off the pages, smearing the granite as he draws, going from one face to another and sketching in missing details as they flash in his mind. They’re messy. They’re ugly.

He can’t stop looking at them.

He can’t remember their names no matter how many times he tries to write them.

Toya finds himself standing at the front gates of Kamiyama High. The heat is just as oppressive as it was yesterday, and the wind is stronger today. It swirls up dust and sand, threatening to turn into a sandstorm any second. Classmates move around him like fish, a tidal wave, drowning him in shouted plans into laughter into complaints of homework into shouted plans, unbearable. For an instant, in the chaos around him, his eyes catch on the silver earrings of a student he doesn’t recognize, a small hoop and stud that wink once, twice in the sunlight. He starts after them, but they disappear in the crowd, lost.

In another instant, he’s alone. The trees behind him creak in the wind, bare branches swaying as dust and sand kick up around them. In front of him, the buildings across the street groan in solidarity, a little more of their already crumbling exteriors giving way and disappearing into the breeze. His hands are numb, broken things.

“Toya-kun?”

He starts a little at the voice. There's a mechanical quality to it that sounds otherworldly, so much so he doesn't expect to find anyone actually talking to him, but he abruptly meets the clear blue eyes of a girl. She looks much too young to be a high schooler, looking even younger with the concerned frown on her face. Despite the youth, there's a mischievous energy to her that puts him on guard. Her golden hair is held back by a headband topped with a large white bow that he knows the disciplinary committee must have an issue with. There's something familiar about her, like seeing an old classmate from elementary school, unrecognizable except for little flashes of memory: good-natured bickering in front of colorful graffiti, earnest questions in empty lots, singing in a cafe.

Except he’s never done any of those things, and he’d like to so badly his chest could crumble under it.

“They’re waiting for you,” she says, concerned. “Why are you here?” Her voice is hard to make out as the wind picks up, sand batting her voice away.

Toya frowns, leans closer. “Who? Where?” he demands, heart suddenly beating fast, green eyes and orange hair and earrings that shine as bright as his grin and this overwhelming sense of something that pulls in his stomach–

Voices call from the right of them, a similar looking boy waving to her frantically further down the sidewalk. She's turning away from Toya, calling back, and he reaches forward to grab her hand, to clutch her to him and have her say their names– what was his name–

The ground beneath him pitches dangerously, and his foot sinks down a few centimeters. He barely manages to scramble backwards before the chunk of earth disappears, the dirt around it crumbling after.

Heart hammering, he can barely see the girl a short distance away, her white bow a beacon through the dust kicked up by the earth.

“Wait!” Toya calls, already moving to follow.

He moves as fast as he dares, eyes jumping between the girl and the ground, moving around the fragile cracks as quickly as he can. The faint sound of earth crumbling bites at his heels, his footsteps still punching holes into the earth, making him stumble, and the sandstorm only grows stronger as he chases them. His lungs are burning, his breaths short as he tries to keep from swallowing sand. He’s terrified to blink, eyes locked on that white bow as the girl steadily grows further away from

The wind stops.

The sun disappears.

It’s night, and he’s standing on a corner, his chest heaving in big, frantic gulps. His head whips side to side, lost, and his mind scrambles to remember where he came from. He dabs at a stray line of sweat on his face with his sleeve.

He’d been angry– he remembers that much. Probably blew off practice again, and his father hadn’t been happy to hear the silence coming from his room. Ungrateful, he remembers him sneering. A waste. And Toya had felt vindictive even as something in him shriveled under his father’s disapproval.

Then his father’s face had shifted. Irritation was still there– Toya was too well acquainted with it to miss it, with the way the lines on his father’s face turned even more severe, the tightness of his mouth and posture turning as rigid as a statue– but something else slipped in. Something pained, an almost desperate undertone when he demanded, Why are you doing this?

The answer that had immediately popped into Toya’s mind, the knee-jerk response, had him pushing passed his father, out of the house, away from the thought that resounded in his head before it could swallow him whole. It lurks still, and he doesn't want to look at it, doesn't want to think about it–

“Toya?”

His head jerks. There's a mechanical quality to it that sounds otherworldly, so much so he doesn't expect to find anyone actually talking to him, but he abruptly registers the form of a boy before him. He can’t seem to focus on him, only taking in smears of yellow and concerned blue eyes. There’s still something familiar in the glimpses he gets, but his thoughts muddle together into slush, slipping through the gaps in his broken hands.

Cold hands brush his own. He jerks away, startled, but the other firmly grabs him again and gently pulls him along. The tape on his hands rubs oddly between their skin, and he can see the cracks traveling along the back of his hand, brittle and painful to look at.

“Follow me,” the other says. The quiet confidence there lets Toya move, lets him not think too hard, and that’s what he wants right now. There’s a gentle sway between their hands like a metronome, and it’s so easy to just shut his eyes and let the sounds of the city wash over him, voices his brain refuses to process bouncing wordlessly off his ears. 

He’s aware, vaguely, of the quality of sound around him changing. The pop music that faintly comes from storefronts stops, replaced with more immediate songs. Street performers, most likely, except there’s so many of them. Each step he can hear a new voice, a new sound. Energy charges the air, underscoring the music, and he can even hear it in the normal conversations of people walking past. Still, he keeps his eyes closed, doesn’t listen too closely, a child hesitant to touch a flame that’s burned him once.

He feels like he’s forgetting something important.

A bell jingles above him. His hand is gripping the cold metal of the door handle.

The cafe he’s wandered into is well-lit but devoid of customers, and the scent of coffee is strong enough to sting his nose. Mismatched chairs pepper the small tables scattered around the room, seemingly moved around at will. A sleek modern chair sits across an old rocking chair. A dark blue office chair, a short orange armchair, a pink stool, and a light blue bowl chair all gather around one tiny table, almost on top of each other, while a table beside them stands on its lonesome. The only matching chairs are at the bar counter, a handful of red high tops that are well-maintained. Behind the counter is the kitchen, the equipment visible to all, and a small glass case has a few different pastries inside, likely a bit stale from sitting out all day.

A woman is leaning on the counter, watching him with a soft smile and warm brown eyes like freshly brewed coffee. The red sunglasses tucked into her white shirt collar match the high tops. Her short brown hair cuts off cleanly at her chin, and large gold earrings sway as she regards him.

“Toya-kun,” she acknowledges, a mechanical quality to her voice that sounds just as warm as her eyes. There's something familiar about her, and that’s enough for him to finish walking in. 

The door slowly clicks shut behind him, sealing off the music outside. The night is thick, dark enough to block out the streetlamps, the street outside disappearing. It’s as if he’s stepped into a black box.

“I don’t remember you,” he admits.

The woman frowns thoughtfully. After a moment she gestures to the chair in front of her and walks into a back room. Toya obliges.

She reappears a moment later and places a small cup of coffee in front of him. She doesn’t offer him milk or sugar, which he wouldn’t have used anyway. Instead she slides a small plate of checkerboard cookies next to it. 

He takes a cookie to be polite, well aware a standard cookie tends to be a bit too sweet for him, but the flavor is mild, a hint of matcha dancing on his tongue. He hums, surprised, and the woman smiles happily. The coffee is similarly excellent, bitter without being overwhelming. 

“It’s delicious,” he says, meaning it.

“I thought you might like it,” she responds. There’s a lilt to her voice that takes him a moment to register as teasing.

Toya glances around again, but he can’t see a sign. The windows are free of text as well, only a small sign with “Closed” on it pinned to the door. His eyes linger on the total darkness outside, not even the light from inside illuminating the street. It's the kind of darkness so thick it feels like if he reached out, he could touch it. “What is this place?”

“Crase Cafe, but I don’t think that’s what you meant.” She considers him again, a gentle probing that has him self-consciously sipping his coffee. There’s something about it, some quality that reminds him of his mother looking at him at the dinner table, worried but scared to push too hard. “You seem a bit lost, Toya,” she says delicately.

He is. He knows he's lost something with a bone-deep certainty. His body aches without it, his brain fraying apart with the missing pieces. Orange hair and a bright streak, bright eyes, bright grin–

The woman taps her long earrings, making them sway. Toya rips his eyes from them, mouth open, words struggling to form, crashing into each other in a rush to articulate the gaping shape that rips through him. He pats the front of his chest and can’t believe it’s still whole.

Shying away from the chaos, his mind jumps back to the other issue, the words that have been hovering on the edge of his awareness ever since he first thought them at his father, a shadow from the corner of his eye that he’s already caught too much of a glimpse of to ignore.

“I hate music,” he says instead, a different loss that hollows his insides. His bandaged hands crackle as he grips the cup, cracks splitting further. His fingers have chunks missing, lost somewhere on the street. He looks away from them.

The woman takes the statement in, thoughtful. “You must've cared about it a lot, then.”

Toya frowns. Years of work doesn't amount to care. This was a decision he made as a child without truly understanding it. 

But he thinks about the binder of sheet music he keeps on his bookcase filled with his favorite pieces. He thinks of the weight of a violin on his shoulder and the trained curve of his fingers. Despite the anger, he even thinks of his father's work, how his orchestrations always move something in him when he listens. He used to look forward to practice, once. Even now, within the silence of the cafe, he lingers on the music he heard outside, curious despite himself.

“...Maybe I did,” he says at last.

Smiling, the woman picks up her own cup. She doesn't sip it, seeming to be seeking the warmth of it. Her fingers are long and slender– pianist hands, his brain supplies. The vivid red polish on her nails suits her.

“I don't need to tell you sometimes the people or things we love hurt,” she says. “It's when that hurt gets unbearable that you need to decide what to do.”

Her eyes drift down at his hands. Embarrassed, he pulls them off the counter and into his lap. The plate of cookies sits empty between them, the last of his coffee slowly forming a stain inside the cup. He tries not to hunch his shoulders.

“You could simply hate it,” she continues softly. “It's pretty easy to decide what to do with something you hate. But if you don’t want to, sometimes you just need to take a new perspective on it.” Her cup clinks softly as she sets it down. Now that it's empty, he can see a delicate orange flower painted at the bottom. “Once you transform it, it might not hurt anymore.”

He looks at his own cup, the bottom still hidden by his own coffee, and his stomach squirms uncomfortably at the thought of finishing it. Almost involuntarily, he asks, “What if I still hate it?”

“Then maybe it'll be time to let go.” She gathers his plate and cup, neatly stacking them. “Just make sure when you do, you have no regrets. It's a decision you make, not an inevitably.” She gestures at the door with one hand. “If you're interested, people out there perform on the street. Some sing in groups. Some have bands. A lot of people sing just to sing. It could be worth a try.”

Toya frowns. That sounds…familiar. A colleague of his father mentioned something similar once, an area of street musicians he’d stumbled into one day trying to find a music shop. The disgust on his father's face had been stark, and the others laughed about it as well. They mentioned the crassness of the music, the cyclical redundancy of sampling the same popular beats over and over.

“What's the street outside called?” Toya asks quickly, before the woman disappears into the back.

She smiles widely. “Vivid Street.”

—

The moment he steps outside of the cafe, the noise attacks him from all sides. Overlapping music fights for dominance in the night air from multiple sources, speckled up and down the street like stars, supernovas and faint glimmers. The groups outside the music shops are the loudest, overlapping tracks warring with neighbors a few buildings down. Crowds circle all the performers, and the people in the middle of two groups seem to turn on a dime between who they give their attention to, their energy unfading. Live houses pulse faintly with their own music and tempt other passersby, snagging a few of the more curious.

It’s overwhelming, the polar opposite of the quiet concert halls he performs in with their polite clapping and occasional whistles for the exceptional performance. If anyone acted like these people, they’d be ejected immediately. He pictures his father’s reaction and decides he likes the way these people react, even if navigating through the busy street is a nightmare.

Still, there's something to be said about knowing the etiquette of an environment. He knows the rules of concert halls and competitions more like second nature than as a set of rules. Here, it's like learning how to walk again. The flow of foot traffic, where to perform, who can perform… he still doesn't entirely understand, but he knows he wants to try singing.

For this, he doesn't want a backing track. He doesn't want support. He barely wants an audience. This is about the anger simmering in his gut and the throbbing in his crumbling hands. It’s about performing this music that’s the antithesis of everything he’s learned. It's about the look on his father’s face once he finds out what he’s doing. Whatever these musicians are working towards, if it's anything at all, doesn't involve him, and he won't take up their space. 

It leaves him wandering aimlessly, stopping at random points for a few moments to try and gauge its suitability. The shops he stops in front of wave him away, worried about unknown kids blocking doorways. The street corners feel correct, but too many eyes stop to regard him. Alleyways feel too cramped and dark. He moves deeper and deeper into the street and, options exhausted, starts turning down side streets.

After turning down a few, the lights and sounds of Vivid Street begin to slowly vanish. The small chasms that split apart the dying earth disappear in the slowly receding light of the main street, and the decaying buildings almost seem whole in the protective darkness of night. It’s only close to the streetlamps where they become exposed, ugly, and jagged. 

He stops in front of one of the streetlamps, the ring of light just barely touching his shoes. A vending machine hums nearby, its products unseeable without the light inside working. The buildings nearby are similarly dark, though it’s impossible to tell if their eroding conditions even allow for them to be used at this time of night. Black shadows occasionally wander past on either side of the street, their shapes nothing more than the impression of a person. Peeking from behind the streetlamp, a yellow dandelion droops in the breeze.

A sudden wave of self-consciousness keeps his feet rooted, skin prickling with the anticipation of potential eyes on him. The tape on his fingers is slowly coming loose on his clammy hands, and it tickles his palm when he clenches his hands. The ache of it still isn’t enough to get him to move.

“Go ahead, Toya.”

Gentle, almost like a breeze, he feels a hand push him forward into the street light. There's a mechanical quality to the words that sounds otherworldly, so much so he doesn't expect to find anyone actually talking to him, and there isn’t when he turns around. For a moment, he thinks he catches a flash of light green, but it’s gone too fast to know, just as easily a reflection off glass or a flickering light.

Bathed in the faint glow, Toya tries to relax. Most of his education on singing is only how it can be used for compositions, the human voice reduced to another potential instrument in an orchestra. However, the proper technique was taught to him long ago. It was one of the few things his mother ever guided him in, her own background as a classically trained singer showing in the way her solemn face lit up as she taught her youngest son how to breathe from his diaphragm.

He winces a bit at the image, the anger cooling a bit at the thought. She wouldn’t blame herself for this, but she probably wouldn’t appreciate her techniques being used like this either. 

Still, it’s not enough to stop him from breathing in deep and letting out that first note.

The tone comes out strong and stable, and it feels nice in his throat. It resonates deep, the physicality of it only making the anger in him tremble in time with it, a roaring animal egged on by rattling its cage. He pushes his voice louder and louder into the night, and it feels like screaming even with his precise, controlled tonality. It feels like crashing his hands into a dissonant chord just to hear it ring. He sings another song without stopping. Then another. He sings and sings and pictures the sour look his father would wear if he saw him now. He sings until his chest feels like it’s being crushed under his ribcage, squeezed into confinement, until it hurts worse than his hands.

It feels good.

It feels a bit meaningless, too. Music without a goal, the equivalent of banging away at a piano because he can. That kernel of hatred lurks behind it, infusing the relief with something rotten. He cuts off his last song, the last word bending flat without meaning to, and scowls down at his hands, tape flapping in the dry, sandy breeze, his fingers askew.

“Hey, you've been singing around here a lot lately.”

His head jerks up. There’s no special quality to this voice, nothing notable about its impolite tone at all, but his heart thumps unsteadily in his chest from more than his exhaustion. The little he can see of the boy that stands in front of him sets off alarm bells immediately: piercings, dyed hair, half-smile. His eyes shine with something feral that matches the scratch in Toya’s throat, and there’s a calculating tint to him as he looks Toya up and down. He’s still too shrouded by night to see completely, but he seems to be about Toya’s age, a scrawny fourteen year old.

…Wait, wasn’t he in high school? No, that couldn’t be right.

“What if I have?” Toya says shortly.

The other waves his hand dismissively, but he still doesn’t look away. “Nothing, I just noticed ‘s all. I was curious why you'd choose to sing here, of all places.”

Toya shifts, skin prickling, anger still beating hotly through his system. “...It's nothing worth getting curious about,” he says finally.

“Your rhythm and pitch are always so precise,” the boy observes, but something about it feels wrong in Toya’s ear, like a song he’s listened to has suddenly changed. If he didn’t know better, he would say it sounds fond. “I bet you've been into music a while.”

“...I guess you could say that,” Toya responds. The words feel separate from him, like he’s reciting lines from a half-remembered script, the emotions farther away than usual. Has he…done this before?

“Oh?” Those eyes shine with interest. “Some kind of story behind it, I take it?”

“...Nothing important. It's just…” His throat hurts. His hands hurt. It feels good, but it hurts. Still… “I feel like I can be myself when I'm singing like this.” He admits it almost in spite of himself, more to test how the words feel than communicate.

Still, the other boy replies. “So you've got music to thank for keeping you going, then? Now you’ve got my attention.” He leans forward, and his face finally takes shape in the faint light. Orange hair styled to look a bit messy and a bleached streak in his bangs. Earrings that catch the light. Olive eyes that don’t leave his face, determined like he’s about to step on stage.

“Hey,” the other boy continues. He holds out his hand, and it’s somehow as familiar as Toya’s own. “How would you like to try singing together?” He smiles wide, older, and Toya knows his face, has known it for years, hasn’t he? It's the face in his notebook but the name is still missing, tickling at his mind, unreachable. He’s seen this scene over and over again, played it on repeat like a well-loved song. This was the day they became partners. This was the day this anger became something productive. This was the beginning of their dream for him, even if he wouldn't really make it his own for years to come.

This was the beginning of their partnership.

All the memories that flood back are formless, vague impressions of feelings underscored by two other figures he can’t name. Words come to mind: warmth, acceptance, comradery. Safety. Freedom.

Underneath it all, a huge shadow lurking in the water, surges a deeper feeling. In it the warmth becomes burning, the comradery lacking. It yearns like he’s never felt before, stuck in his structure of music, school, music, sleep, a feeling so murky and vast his mind shies away from it even in its vaguest form.

Looking at his outstretched hand, that yearning turns cold and sharp. Naming the new feeling takes a few stunned moments, so blindsided by its appearance he can't recognize it, but his body reacts to it without needing to name it. His own hand pulls back, and he’s moving away, back towards the streetlamp, back where it’s safe.

This didn’t happen the first time.

The other boy’s eyes widen at his retreat. He steps forward one step, thinks better of it, and stops. He doesn’t drop his hand. “What’s up?” he asks, but his voice wavers. The confidence that had been underpinning his gesture turns unsure. “You look…”

Toya blinks at him, breaking hands held close to his chest. “How do I look?”

Throat working, the other responds, “Kinda scared.”

“That makes sense.” A pause. “I think I am.”

The street around them is quieting. The lights are beginning to dim. He should be home by now. His father will be angry. His mother will be worried.

“Why?” the shorter boy asks.

Isn’t that the question? 

He doesn’t want to hate music. He wants to keep music. He wants to like it again, to work on it and not feel like he’s chipping away at parts of himself to do it. He wants that freedom he feels singing on this corner, and this boy will help him. He knows it like he knows the dozens of piano pieces that still sit on his bookshelf, familiar and safe. Why be so scared of that?

Toya can’t look away from the boy’s face, only now realizing how badly he captured it with his drawing when compared to the real thing. The technical deficiencies had been obvious, but it's the tiny things that he drinks in: the fading edges of the dye, the faint holes in his ears, the boundless energy that keeps him constantly moving. He wants to see the other two faces that lurk in his mind to see what other details he missed. Even with the fear he craves the three of them, craves the memories and feelings it leeches off of. He needs them.

But what draws his attention the most are the sensations that brush over his body with the memories. The smell of coffee and a bright, teasing laugh that pushes them forward as she sings, golden eyes alight. A quiet speaking voice that explodes into strength when she sings, maturing voice at odds with the pigtails she still wears. A warm arm over his shoulders and a voice refined through countless hours of work, always keeping them in check, supporting them.

Toya can feel the ghost of the physical weight of him even now as he looks at the boy: his shoulder, longing for the solid feeling of him and his body heat against his side; his back, touched in a job well done. His crumbling hand twitches a bit as his eyes drop to the other’s outstretched palm, wanting to reach out.

And yet beneath those impressions, hidden behind these safe touches the other freely gives, are phantom touches pulled out of him from nothingness, fantasies his brain has always jumped from before they went too far. Arms around him. Breath against his lips. Hands under his shirt. Bright eyes on him, all the time, alive with the feeling of them together.

Toya feels his fingers snap as he clenches them together, the realization crashing into him with so much force he’s breathless with it. That's what this feeling– this big, impossible feeling–is. 

He wants him.

Sand shifts around them lazily in the breeze, brushing against his skin. His eyes drift down, down to where he can see the holes in the dry earth around the boy. Even now they crumble at the edges, falling away with the lightest touch of the wind.

What does this mean for him? For them? For this partnership they’ve built and this spot he’s carved for himself at his side, supporting him, trusted? Will he view this as a betrayal? What does he do? 

What happens now that he’s named this feeling?

The boy suddenly sighs, but there’s a smile playing on his lips. “You’re too thoughtful for your own good sometimes, y’know that? But I guess I admire that about you.” His smile turns self-depreciating. “I rush ahead. Can’t do anything else. But that’s why I trust you to watch my back ‘n pull me back when I need it.” 

Then he looks directly into Toya’s eyes, his own blazing a brilliant shade of green that makes Toya aware of his breath hitching. “So trust me to pull you ahead when you need it.”

Pulse racing, Toya smiles a bit in return. He says it like it’s so simple, like this feeling doesn't swallow him whole, doesn't make these simple things between them a knife at both their backs. 

He wants it to be that simple. 

“Okay,” he says, and reaches out a crumbling hand.

The instant their hands touch and Toya registers the heat of it, the unfamiliar jitters of an impulse race through him. The image is clear in his mind’s eye, to grab his hand a little firmer and pull him closer, into his arms. His grip tightens–

There’s a loud sound, a louder crash. The builds around them groan in relief as they give in to their own weight, beams snapping and concrete exteriors surrendering to gravity. The desert wind blows harder, trying to keep them supported, only to fall under their weight. The dry earth doesn’t stand a chance. It splitters beneath them, resembling the glass that shatters in the windows of buildings. It’s only a moment before the two of them fall.

And for a brief instant, as their eyes meet in widened surprise over their clasped hands, the impulse to pull him closer still raging in his body, a word tickles on the tip of his tongue. He traces the shape of the other boy, of his styled orange hair, the dyed streak and earrings bright in the fading street lights. The word feels a little foreign in his mouth now, heavy with this new feeling that rampages through his body, and it hurts a little bit where it digs into his mouth, catching on his hunger.

He doesn’t know what he’s going to do with this hunger. Maybe the other boy will hate it, or maybe Toya himself will come to hate it, but he won't let go. He’ll decide to hold on with everything he has.

The other tightens his grip on Toya. His breaking fingers are held together in his steady grasp.

He opens his mouth to yell

A chorus of voices greet him, but one echoes over the rest.

“Toya!”

Toya’s eyes open to a blue sky that’s just a shade too blue to be real. Seven faces look down at him, all mixed with worry, but his eyes find his partner’s right away.

“Akito?” he asks, surprised when his throat doesn’t hurt. “What…?”

Akito rushes forward, helping him sit up, hand warm on his back. “How ya holdin’ up?” he asks carefully. “Remember anything?”

After a moment, Toya nods. “Yes, I– ” His voice catches as he sees his hands, harsh white lines tracing where he remembers them falling apart. Even as he watches, they fade more and more with each heart beat until they vanish, and his hands are left in the same relatively healthy state he remembers. 

He becomes aware that no sand sticks to his skin, either. No tan from his days in the harsh desert heat, no dryness cracking lips, and no pain lingering in either his hands or his throat. The only sign of his ordeal is the exhaustion that slows his brain, like he’s simply studied a little too hard or been plagued by restless sleep.

It feels a bit like a loss.

“What happened?” Len asks.

“How’d you get in there?” Kaito-san follows.

“Did you see us before?” Rin asks.

“Why was it so dusty?” Luka-san asks sadly.

“Let’s just all take a breath,” Miku says.

Toya shakes his head, overwhelmed, Akito’s hand on his back burning –

“Let’s go back to the cafe,” Meiko-san says, sudden but not unkind. “I’ll make Toya-kun a drink, and we'll let him reorient himself before we find out what happened.” She glances at him, and her expression softens. “Sound good?”

Grateful, Toya nods. He needs no help standing, but Akito helps anyway, warm hands scalding where they touch even through layers of clothes. The virtual singers also hover around him, only backing off once he shows he’s stable, a collective breath released. 

As they start to walk, Akito smiles at him once, a small, reassuring thing.

Abruptly, as an impulse to move closer wracks through his body, an image of him pressed into Akito’s side, Toya realizes that there is one thing he brought back with him, and the size of it threatens to swallow him whole as he smiles unsteadily back.

Chapter Text

There's a long silence after Toya finishes recounting his experience, the cafe unnaturally quiet. Miku and Meiko-san sit nearby, the others scattering to the farther corners of the cafe to keep from crowding him, all looking troubled as they fully digest his story.

Akito sighs next to him, looking as tired as Toya feels. The want stirs in his chest as he watches Akito take a deep drink from his cup, eyes involuntarily falling to the way his smooth throat moves, and he forcibly rips his eyes back to the counter in front of him. Something in him balks when he remembers what the fragment looked like for Akito. No memory, no landmarks… just a sand storm and a single, blooming flower. Toya’s earlier fragment somehow feels safer in comparison, even with the crumbling architecture. Still, as horrible as the experience had been, he knows he would’ve touched the fragment even faster if he’d known what Akito was going through in there.

Rin is the first to pipe up loudly from her table. “So how was Toya able to enter the fragment Sekai? It doesn’t sound like it was reacting to anyone but Akito.”

“I wanna know why we couldn’t remember much when we followed Toya in,” Kaito-san continues from behind her, his coffee can clattering hollowly as he knocks it over. He fumbles to right it, smiling bashfully at Meiko-san’s stern look.  “Rin and Len were in there with Akito without any issue, but I couldn’t remember anything once I went in.”

“Me, Meiko-san, and Miku could!” Len says. “Well, enough to know what to do, anyway.”

“I remembered more than Luka-san and Kaito, though,” Rin argues.

“I felt like I had to play along, but I didn't really have any issues once you guys let me try,” Akito offers, a note of frustration leaking through. His fingers drum against the counter, trying to let out his irritation, but the tense line of his body doesn't relax at all.

“We didn't know what would happen if we let you go back in,” Luka-san offers calmly. “I think it only worked because the rest of us went in first, anyway.”

Miku’s still frowning in thought through it all, one leg swinging lazily as she studies Toya. Meiko-san is similarly troubled, tracing her cup with one red fingernail and a faraway look in her eye.

“I think the three of us were able to retain some memories as the original three that appeared with this Sekai,” Miku finally says. “Rin came shortly after, which would also explain why she was a little better off. At least, that’s my guess.” Her frown gets deeper, eyebrows wrinkling as she folds her arms. “I didn’t even know other humans could go into a fragment once someone else resonated with it, so I’m not confident.”

“Maybe if another person understands the initial person the fragment reacts to, they’ll be allowed entry?”  Meiko-san offers.

“Akito and Toya are pretty close,” Len says, unaware of the flash of heat those words suddenly wash through Toya’s body. “But how come it changed so much when Toya got in? Sekai’s don’t just change because someone’s there.”

“No, but fully-formed Sekais do still react to changing emotions,” Luka-san says, twirling a long strand of hair around her finger. She studies Toya, blue eyes as piercing as he remembers. “Even here, along the edges, I can see the buildings and graffiti change from day to day. The core of this place doesn’t move much since it comes from all four of you, but I would guess a small fragment would.”

“But the crumbling buildings that were there come from the fragment Toya found, not him,” Kaito-san says. “Why were they there?”

“Me, Akito, and Len left pretty soon after Toya went in,” Rin points out. “Akito is the one that it reacted to first, so it shoulda disappeared once he left. Maybe it wound up pulling in feelings from the fragment Toya found before to keep itself together?” She pauses, looks around the room. “Can it do that?”

“It’s not impossible,” Meiko-san concedes, but her lips are twisted like she’s tasted something sour. “A fragment eventually dissipates on its own, like mist. Just because you can’t see it doesn’t mean it’s not there. With Toya as a source, I suppose it could be possible for one fragment to pull in another to try and stabilize enough to become a Sekai.”

“Could it actually become one?” Luka-san asks mildly, letting her hair slip through her fingers and onto her shoulder.

“I don’t think so,” Miku says after a moment, eyes narrowed in concentration. “It would have to keep pulling in more and more feelings from different people, but I’m sure most would end up being contradictory. That would destabilize it, like we saw with Toya, until it finally disappeared.”

“So, what? Mine was a desert, his was a crumbling building, and everything else is just chalked up to vague ‘emotions?’” Akito says. His expression is troubled, eyes narrowed and jaw clenched. He looks at Toya, and it shifts into something closer to worry. “How does that translate into whatever the hell that was? Why did it turn into somethin’ like the real world? Why did he remember his name but I couldn't remember mine? What about his hands?”

“I used to have a nightmare about my hands breaking,” Toya offers. “Not often,” he quickly adds, glad when the distressed lines around Akito’s eyes relax. “Maybe once or twice a year, once my hands started getting bad from practicing so much.” He shrugs. “I think I got them more often in the year before I….” Before he ran away. “Maybe it was mixed into all those feelings it pulled?”

There’s a moment of silence as they all consider his words. Toya fights the urge to reach out and touch Akito, see if he can smooth out the rest of his worry. Even now his eyes trace his face, memorizing it again and again, and he writes the kanji of his name against the counter, alternating with Shiraishi’s and Azusawa’s like he can force their memory into his very being.

“The Sekai Toya originally found just wanted him to see those instruments,” Miku says slowly, her foot tapping a steady rhythm. “It didn’t expect him to make any decisions, just to consider his feelings. Akito’s, however, expected him to push ahead.”

“A stalemate?” Meiko-san suggests. “Both fragments are inspired by opposite feelings, so, maybe to coexist with Toya, it had to pull on something both boys knew? This wouldn’t be enough to stabilize it, so it pulled in more and more of Toya’s feelings.”

“Maybe,” Miku says, but neither she nor Meiko-san look entirely convinced. “I’m still not sure why he forgot only parts of himself when Akito forgot everything.”

“We both heard that voice at the beginning, right?” Toya glances at Akito, looking away when their eyes meet, his heart skipping a beat. “Akito, you said you felt like you had to follow it, but I didn’t. It felt like…” He closes his eyes, concentrating on the memory of the feeling. “It was like the world didn’t expect me to do that. I doubt a Sekai you resonated with would be needlessly cruel; it’s likely it expected me to push back like you did. When I didn’t, that’s when everything became strange.”

“Wait!” Len says, table rocking dangerously as he stands. Rin manages to keep it from crashing, pouting at her partner, but he's too caught up to notice. “Akito said he felt like he’d lose ‘something precious’ if he didn’t go into the sandstorm.” He shakes his head. “No, he said he’d lose something important and himself.”

Toya sucks in a sudden breath, everyone turning to look at him. Choosing his words carefully, he haltingly explains, “I didn’t have complete amnesia like Akito, but I forgot everyone: Shiraishi, Azusawa, all of you, Akito.” He reaches up to fiddle with his necklace, biting his lip and looking away from the others. The smooth skin there is still surprising, somehow used to the chapped quality from the unforgiving heat of that world. How could he have only been in there for an hour? “I could remember their faces after a while, but I only remembered their names at the end after Akito…” He hesitates. ‘Rescued me’ is a bit much. “...helped me,” he finishes lamely. “I think it’s more accurate to say I ‘never met Akito’ instead of ‘forgetting Akito,’ so I did lose something important.

“And I suppose I lost myself, as well,” he continues. It feels so banal when he says it out loud. He looks at his hands, unmarked from the damage of the fragment. Even if they had lingered, he wouldn’t have had anything to show for how it felt to walk around like a husk, caught in the current of the world around him. “If I never met Akito, I don’t think I would’ve gone back to classical music, but I was still practicing violin and piano the same way I did when I was younger. I wasn’t completely myself.”

“So the Sekai tried to carry out its punishment,” Meiko-san says thoughtfully, tapping the counter. “I suppose that would explain why it was trying to simulate your life without what it took. That could also explain why the fragment didn’t disperse until Akito went in and convinced you to go with him, since meeting him would restore what it took from you.”

“Or was the fragment just slowly falling apart anyway,” Miku counters, “and Akito was just the last straw?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Akito says suddenly. “He’s back, and we all know not to touch one of those things again.” He cuts a sharp look to Rin and Len. “And also be careful where we’re running, right?”

The two nod quickly, clearly chastised as they look down sadly. “Sorry, Akito,” they offer sheepishly.

“I still don't get why the two of you have such dangerous fragments,” Miku grumbles.

Akito smiles, all teeth. It does something devastating to Toya's stomach, something hot and squirming. “We are called BAD DOGS.”

There's a little more chatter after that, smaller conversations breaking out into further discussion about the how’s and why’s that’s too much to deal with right now. Toya ignores them, content to have Akito hovering nearby, listening to the low cadence of his voice, but he feels his eyes starting to slip closed before long. After a few false starts at sleep, jerking to awareness just before his head falls out of his hand, Akito suggests they head out.

“We’re here if you need to talk,” Meiko-san says to him quietly before he leaves, her smile dimmed a bit by the worried crease around her eyes.

“Thanks,” Toya says and means it. Her words in that strange Sekai are tucked away to look at later, when he finally decides to sit and consider what this want in his chest means.

The two of them walk a short distance away. It's hard to know if the silence really is a bit awkward, or if that's just this new self-conscious feeling messing with his perception. He sighs; this will be annoying to deal with. And after he finally learned to read Akito, too…

“Practice is clearly shot,” Akito says suddenly. “Did you wanna– I dunno. We could go eat? Or head to the arcade?” He shrugs, not looking at him. “Somethin’. Whatever you want.”

“No, thank you,” Toya says, bracing against the way his heart leaps eagerly in his chest at the thought of hanging out. He watches Akito's expression flicker and quickly continues, “I'm exhausted.” It's a truth, at least, and he’s hoping a clear head will take some of the edge off this feeling, make it manageable, containable.

Akito nods, relief washing the tension from his shoulders. “Yeah, that makes sense. Must've felt like you were in there for a few days.” He pays Toya's back once, and it makes every nerve in Toya's body blaze, zeroed in on the spot. “Good job hangin’ in there.”

“Yeah,” Toya breathes.

They both shift back to the real world in a flurry of light, appearing in that alley near Ken-san’s place. Akito is blocking the exit, and the way Toya’s pulse races at the thought of squeezing past him is enough to make him wait for the other to move, careful not to stoke the flames still smoldering from his earlier touch. The sounds of the busy street feels far away here, encased by the tall buildings around them, so much so it feels like another, separate world with only the two of them.

“I'm glad you took my hand,” Akito says suddenly. “In the fragment, but back then, too.” He offers his fist up, smiling. Like this, the little sun that leaks into the alley haloing his face brilliantly, orange hair swaying in the breeze, he’s gorgeous. “It wouldn't be the same without you, partner.”

Weakly, Toya offers his own fist. Once again an image of him grabbing his wrist comes to mind, of pulling him closer, but their hands connect without incident. His skin burns from the brief touch, and it takes more effort than he’d like to keep from immediately running his hand over the fleeting heat.

Does everyone else walk around like this? With this feeling dogging their every move? How do they bear it? How do they not fall apart under it?

Watching Akito walk away, Toya doesn't know if he can.

—

One short nap and many hours later, this feeling still heavy against his chest, unchanged, Toya begrudgingly accepts he won’t be able to keep this up for long. This want is going to suffocate him for the foreseeable future, and there’s no way he’ll learn to hide it before Akito notices something is wrong.

On top of that, An’s become perceptive of him as well. The recent revelation with Nagi is unlikely to throw her off the trail, and it would only take her a moment to confirm with Akito they're seeing the same change. They’re all in such a perilous position that they can’t afford Toya at anything less than his best, which would mean the others would try and help him, which would mean their attention would be split. He needs to head this off at the pass and minimize any damage to the group.

Most significantly, Akito is finally relying on him more as a partner, and to not repay him in kind… This partnership– this spot at his side– is too important to jeopardize.

So the best course of action is to confess to him as soon as he can, and it might as well be tomorrow.

It makes logical sense, even if his stomach churns at the thought, like he's falling into nothingness all over again.

Toya sighs, turning over in his bed. The sun’s set long ago by now, the lights from the neighborhood only enough to cast his balcony into a fuzzy outline, and the slight chill of the AC has him tightening his blankets around his body. His piano, his desk, his bookshelves… all of them are gone in the darkness, present but invisible. He lets his hand drift to his bedside table to tap his phone, its weak light illuminating just a little bit of his room to prove its existence while this unseen feeling squeezes his heart.

He’d never even thought he was capable of this, that those sweeping romantic gestures he's read about in the handful of romance novels he picked up were too unrealistic to interest him. People who acted like a fool in front of their crush, the giggling girls and the preening boys… he’d thought he was too mature for it as a child, and then he thought he was too different as a teenager. Now it feels like all the time he avoided it has caught up all at once, like everyone else his age has slowly learned to swim while he gets cast into the deep end, fighting to keep the best thing that's ever happened to him afloat.

Oh, well. If it was going to be someone, of course it would be Akito, always pulling him ahead into uncharted waters.

…Maybe it’s better that he can't hide it. Akito’s long since pointed out Toya’s prone to spiraling on his own. Even now, trying to picture and plan for how his partner will react, it's impossible to separate wishful thinking from cataclysmic overreactions. As often as his thoughts drift to Akito suggesting a date to actually try something and, more impossible, a confession back, they just as often veer sharply the other way, images of disgust and fear and the suggestion that, maybe, they shouldn’t be partners anymore.

He rolls onto his back, staring at the plain white of his ceiling. What makes his body shiver even under his covers, that makes dread sink its paralyzing hands into his heart, that makes these impossible futures feel so possible, is how this confession will change them. Akito will not reciprocate, but will he still touch him? Will he still put an arm over his shoulder? Will they hang out on the roof alone? Will they still go to arcades and cafes, just the two of them? Will he even nudge his shoulder? Or will this knowledge put an untouchable barrier around Toya, enforce distance that, even without these feelings, he craves as a friend? Can he survive in that barrier?

He wants to believe Akito won't hate him for this. He wants to believe he won't hate himself.

He once thought he could never hate music. He's still running from classical music.

Meiko-san drifts into his mind, the beautiful orange flower still so clear in his memory. Before, Toya had forced their partnership apart, worried he didn't deserve to be at his side, but as he is now, he wants to decide to hold onto this partnership even if it makes his hands crumble all over again. 

And he wouldn't regret the pain for a moment. He would keep trying to turn this unbearable feeling into something that he can live with, transforming it again and again until it’s just short of too much and live with the consequences of slowly bleeding out.

Just as steadying is the certainty that Akito wouldn't want it to hurt. He would work with him, nurture this thing they carry between them until its thorns no longer cut even if it took a lifetime. 

Past the weight of this want, past the longing and the phantom echoes, past the nagging thought that maybe, if these feelings don’t fade, Toya would come to hate them instead, all he needs, the guiding light, is the knowledge that there’s no giving up for the two of them now. There is no “letting go.” The two of them would try anything to keep this partnership intact. 

They’re partners no matter what.

Besides, Akito's said it before all that time ago in Weekend Garage: I want to be with you, and you want to be with me as well. After that, our dream will come true…Isn't that enough?

And maybe, like taking his hand in a world unraveling at the seams, it can be that simple.

—

Toya does his best to pay attention during class– he really does– but the minute he stepped on school grounds this morning, it was like he’d drunk five cups of coffee back to back. His hands jitter whenever his mind drifts to the talk he knows he has to have, and his notes are much less legible than he’d like as a result. He switches to his backup notebook after first period, resigning himself to re-copying them later. Somehow it feels harder to write with his fraying nerves than with his fingers falling off, though it could be he’s just not remembering exactly how bad his penmanship really was in the fragment Sekai. 

Already his ordeal yesterday feels more like a nightmare, slipping through his hands as time passes, only leaving him with flashes of recollection when confronted with notable sights: the lead case he swept pieces of his flesh into, the classmate that inexplicably made an appearance, the notebook he drew in. It doesn’t help his nerves much, but it’s no more unbearable than the original recurring dream used to have as a child. If anything, it helps him calm down to try and remember what exactly he learned in class during his dream than remember what he has to do later today.

Once the lunch bell rings, though, the jitters are back in full force. He closes his notebook with more force than he means, knocking his pencil off his desk. Sighing, he leans over to grab it, overbalances, and slams his knee into the metal leg with a dull thud . A few classmates double-take at him, unused to so much noise, but no one says much besides a few “You okay?”’s in their rush to lunch. 

He waves them all off, distracted. This will be the hardest part of the day. He definitely wants to talk to Akito somewhere off school property, both for privacy and for safety. Their school has yet to have any significant bullying problems, but he’s heard Akito and Shiraishi complain enough about the rumors around Akiyama to not even entertain the thought of having such a sensitive conversation where classmates can potentially hear. That means he has to make it through lunch without Akito noticing how bad a shape he’s in and while ignoring the impulse to see if maybe the other boy could put his arm around his shoulders again, just for a minute or two or thirty or maybe the whole lunch hour.

Rubbing at his stinging knee, he mentally shakes himself. He’s eaten with Akito many times with no issue. Surely it can’t be that hard to act like he used to? All he has to do is keep in mind their old interactions, and it should keep the other reassured enough not to press until later. Gathering his lunch, he carefully stands from his desk, mindful of his knee, and starts for the door.

“Aoyagi-kun!” A boy he’s seen with Akito before waves at him, running closer. His brown hair is a little overgrown, hiding his eyes a bit, but the bashful tilt to his mouth is easy to see. “Sorry, but we’re borrowing Akito today. He told me to let you know to eat without him.”

“Oh.” The word slips out against his will, sadder than he intended. He clears his throat, looking away from the way the other boy’s expression turns into something more…puzzled, maybe? It’s hard to know, when their limited interactions are mostly confined to this usual scenario. “That’s fine. Tell Akito I’ll meet him at the gate after school once I’m done with the library committee.”

The other boy just nods and apologies again, though he’s grinning eagerly the whole time. That doesn’t bode well for how willing Akito actually is in whatever’s going on, but Toya’s sure he’ll hear all about it later. The boy quickly disappears into the crowd, and he’s left alone next to his mostly empty classroom.

…Well, that solves one issue, he supposes. He may as well spend lunch getting a jump on copying his notes.

With no one to talk to, he finishes his bento quickly. He pulls out both notebooks, but lingers on the one he used in the fragment. It feels different– more defined, maybe– but too similar not to instinctively think of it as the one he remembers. Half-heartedly, he flips to the back, only to be greeted with empty white pages.

It’s not a surprise, but it stings like one.

His pencil hovers over the unmarred page, a hair’s breadth away. It’s harder to picture everyone’s face here than the fragment, or maybe he’s more aware of what the image in his mind’s eye is lacking in the real world. He moves his pencil around the page without touching it, unsure where to start, aware of his lack of skill in a way he wasn’t before. There’s a process with a circle, but how do you even draw a perfect circle? How would that turn into Akito’s fiery eyes, Shiraishi’s easy smile, Azusawa’s quiet determination? Softly, so faint it’s barely visible, he starts an arc downwards–

The loud sound of laughter jerks Toya’s posture upright, pencil slashing harshly across the page. The group of boys passing by the classroom window don’t even look at him, continuing loudly down the hall.

Toya hastily erases the mark, but the ghost of it remains, a residue of faint gray on an otherwise untouched page. It disappears as he flips back to his messy notes, but he’s aware of it the rest of the day, hidden underneath the layers of pure white.  

—

Being in the library committee calms his nerves in a way few things ever have. It's hard to overthink when sweeping the shelves for out of place books or reshelving returns, the sound of shuffling paper the only noise beyond his own breathing. The other committee members nod silently when they happen upon each other, the students are polite when he helps direct them to the correct shelves, and the librarian conspiratorially lets him know they have a few mystery novels coming in soon. It's nice, even if what he’ll have to do tonight lurks in the back of his mind all the while, a stain on an otherwise pristine page. Too soon their duties end, and he makes his way to the front gate.

There’s not a lot of people still lingering when he exits. All the chatter is far off, the echoes of sport teams practicing and club activities drifting on the clean wind. The trees around him move in the breeze, and a few fallen leaves tumble past with the slightest scraping sound against the well-maintained pavement. The buildings across the street are like any other office building, dull and gray and unremarkable.

Akito is sitting in his usual spot under one of the trees. The sun dapples his form, shifting as the leaves rustle above him. His eyes are fixed in the distance, mouth slightly downturned in thought. “Resting bitch face” Shiraishi called it, but Toya thinks it makes him look more distinguished than his messy uniform would first betray, almost forlorn. Never one to be idle, his long fingers fiddle with the grass beside him, careful not to pull any of it up, and his foot taps a silent beat. His earrings flash dimly in the light as he moves. Toya would be content to stand here and watch him forever, knowing that all he needs to do is approach, and Akito will make room for him.

Then their eyes meet, and the spell is broken. 

Akito lazily waves and stands up as he approaches, brushing the dirt from his uniform pants. “Yo,” he offers. “Have fun?”

“Yes,” Toya responds happily. “They’ll be getting in some new mystery novels soon.”

Akito grins back. “Awesome.” He flashes his phone, the group chat Toya’s never quite learned how to keep track of on the screen. “Figured you didn’t see, but An wants a short practice today.” He shrugs, looking faintly amused. “This is probably the longest she’s gone without singing, so she must be gettin’ antsy. I mean, I get it, but we need to figure out what our next steps are.” His eyebrows are knit in frustration, but his mouth slants in worry. “I wanted to hear what you think before I respond, since I knew you wouldn’t’ve seen it.”

Toya hesitates even as a giddy warmth tickles him at Akito's consideration. It’d be preferable to have his conversation with Akito sooner rather than later, but Shiraishi’s pale skin and darkened eyes from yesterday flash in his mind. She looked better in the brief glimpse he caught of her at the school gate this morning, but it would be nice to confirm it for himself. On top of that, as eager as Akito seems to be to figure out a plan, it would also be in their best interest to take stock of themselves before that. The last thing they want is the taste of losing to Taiga to linger too strongly in their mouths when they discuss what to do.

Plus, a little selfishly, he wants to sing with Akito one more time before things change.

“It might be good to take a quick breather,” Toya offers. “We need to realistically reassess the level we’re at before we talk, as well, rather than base it on how the battle with Taiga went.”

Akito makes a face at the reminder but nods. He sends off a quick response and tucks his phone away. They start right–

Toya stops as Akito goes left, confused. Akito walks a few steps before he notices he’s alone and turns to fix him with a questioning look. 

Frantically trying to remember the area, Toya shakes his head. He can picture the landmarks– the crosswalk near the school, the arcade on Main Street, the corner shop right before Vivid Street– but they’re disconnected, floating and unrelated to each other. Mentally retracing his steps… Akito’s right, it’s the other direction.

He quickly catches up. “Sorry,” he says, “I was confused for a moment. Let’s go.”

Akito gives him a quick once over, eyebrows slanted in concern, but doesn't say anything until they reach the crosswalk. ”You feel okay after yesterday?” 

“Yes,” Toya quickly assures. “I’ll just suddenly remember something for a moment and get confused. It’s not much stronger than the usual deja vu any average, vivid dream can give.” He pauses, thoughtful. “It’s odd how it could feel so realistic when such basic details as the direction of my house were wrong.”

“Who knows what the hell was up with that place.” Akito scowls, but Toya sees the worry he's trying to hide underneath it in the tense set of his jaw. “Even the others were just grasping at straws.”

They cross the street.

“It was gentler than the first one I was in,” Toya says quietly. “Parts of it were hard to look at, yes, but it didn’t feel as hostile as the desert you described. My hands never hurt as they fell apart; they only felt stiff and painful from playing, and I know how to handle that.” A hand hovers over his chest, not touching it. It had never broken like his hands, had never been physically empty with the hole he felt, but… “It was the forgetting that hurt the most.”

“Sorry,” Akito says, not quite looking at him.

“For what?” Toya says, amused, but the guilt on the other’s face wipes it away. “Nothing in the fragment is either of our faults. Whatever dreams or–” he hesitates– “feelings influenced the fragment are beyond us.” 

He holds up his hand, the stereotypically long pianist fingers splayed as he considers it. He’s never been able to find some physical sign of those years he spent, no odd hand shape or deformed fingers. His joints, for all they used to protest, don’t stick out. No one would ever know the things he was capable of playing if he didn’t tell them. How many sensations has he felt that are never physically apparent? What’s so odd about a world that does influence his body, regardless if it would break him apart? 

“Do you want me to apologize that you had to hold my crumbling hand?” he continues. “Or for the buildings falling apart around us?”

“It’s not the same,” Akito protests, stubborn as always, hands tense fists at his side. “You wouldn’t’ve been stuck there for so long if you didn’t forget–”

“You don’t know that.” 

“That’s how I got out,” Akito snaps.

Toya sighs, glancing at the arcade as the pass, the prizes unchanged from last week. “And the first one I was in simply ended. It was a unique situation, Akito. It’s likely I only needed to be present without you to change the fragment. It’s like trying to blame any one of us for how the virtual singers act– we have no control over it.”

Watching the fight leave Akito is fascinating in its rarity. Toya has only really seen it when he deals with his sister, and it’s as awe-inspiring as watching a full-grown tree bend in the wind. The strong line of his shoulders always slump a bit, and a faintly put-upon expression underlines his frustration. When this happens with Toya, there’s no frustration, but a faintly amused upturn to his lips. It reminds him of the first time he managed to tempt Amiki-san’s cat into approaching him, a kind of bemused acceptance of Toya’s own rare stubbornness. 

“Okay, okay,” Akito says, that faint smile lingering. He knocks roughly into Toya’s shoulder, the touch sending a thrill through him, and he keeps his arms locked to his sides to stifle the urge to reach out. “Did you wanna tell the other two about what happened?”

Toya shakes his head firmly. “Not yet. Soon, though.” It'll be easier to do it all at once after he talks to Akito. When their relationship changes, Shiraishi and Azusawa will definitely notice, so they may as well hear it directly from Toya. 

Akito nods easily. “Sounds good.”

There’s a notable shift in sound as they enter Vivid Street, the faint thrum of bass like a heartbeat, drowning out the pop music that leaks in from Main Street shops.  At this point in the day, he can already hear overlapping voices fighting for dominance in the space, the cheers of spectators. Some live houses are already open, pulsing faintly with their own music and tempting passersby inside. Toya feels his body relax here, safe, and lets it wash over him for a few moments.

It’s interesting how the fragment could mix up the direction but recreate Vivid Street so perfectly. 

“Do you mind staying back once we finish up?” he asks Akito at last, heart in his throat. “I want to talk to you about something.”

Akito looks at him from the corner of his eye, probing, but he agrees. It makes a horrible giddy feeling prick at his nerves, and he confines himself to messing with his tie, trying to disguise his nerves. It doesn't seem to work, Akito's eyes zeroing in on his fidgeting hand, but he doesn't push.

Shiraishi and Azusawa are warmed up by the time they arrive and change out of their uniforms, so Akito and Toya are left to warm up by themselves. The girls sit on one of the benches as they sing, giggling and smiling, sitting right up against each other. Shiraishi’s eyes are brighter than they've been since she found out, sparkling as she looks at Azusawa. It must be nice, to be able to hang on to each other like that without fear.

Although… his eyes linger on Shiraishi’s hands, how they always dodge the places on Azusawa that he’s thought about on Akito: her waist, her thigh, her upper arm. He would mistake it as natural if not for the way Shiraishi's hands gravitate to them, pulling away at the last minute like a car swerving to avoid a disaster. He wouldn't have noticed if not for his own out of control thoughts, his own mental preparation for what to avoid.

It's reassuring. Maybe he can ask for advice after his conversation with Akito?

As they finish the last of the warm up, Shiraishi stands up and claps once. “All right,” she says, a fire burning in her eyes. “Let's run through last event’s set. I wanna see how far I am from one hundred percent.”

Toya looks at the other two. Akito's eyebrows are raised, and Azusawa looks a bit troubled now with Shiraishi’s direct attention, but neither look particularly keen to dampen her mood, though Akito looks much closer to saying something. After a few more moments without protest, Shiraishi launches into their first song, and Toya scrambles to jump in on time.

They let her lead most of practice. The absence of the others hangs over them, and there's a quiet understanding that they’ll need to reach out to them soon, but today is not for that. Today is about Shiraishi, bright and powerful, her voice nearly back to full strength. It’s about Azusawa, her voice so much more than any of them thought it could be during that first performance. It’s about Akito, always there to fill in their gaps before they even realize they’re there, stable and reliable. It’s about the energy they produce that flushes Toya's system, lighting them up from the inside out, dancing between them all like live wires. Today is about remembering where they are as a group– who they are– and remembering how far they’ve come.

After their set, Shiraishi immediately pulls Azusawa into a Vivids song with a laugh. Azusawa stumbles a bit through the choreography, half-remembered moves and aborted turns, a testament to how dedicated they’ve been to performing as Vivid BAD SQUAD since they first formed a partnership. Her voice is better than he remembers, strong and clear where it had been raw and unrefined the last time he saw them perform as a duo. Shiraishi sounds better as well, the result of all their practice over the last few months, and their voices combine seamlessly into a perfect blend, beyond what they were before. 

Shiraishi throws her arms around Azusawa at the end of it, her legs lifting off the ground for a moment with the joy of it. Azusawa catches her with a practiced ease, arms ready, posture bracing but open.

Toya's not sure when it changes, when Shiraishi’s hold turns crushing and the joy turns into something almost like a drowning woman clinging to debris. He does see when Azusawa's hands move to secure the other, gentle and firm on her back, steady and beautiful, Shiraishi responding instantly in kind. 

After a few moments, Shiraishi slowly pulls away from Azusawa, hand dabbing at her eyes. “Top that,” she says, a slight waver in her voice.

“We will,” Akito says with a grin, slightly taunting. “Can't let you steal the spotlight just cuz your voice’s back.”

It’s been awhile since they performed as BAD DOGS as well, but they have the benefit of years of partnership, as well as over a year of performing their go-to song. Their start is anything but clumsy, Akito’s voice better than he remembers as he hits his cue with as much energy as they started with, movements more relaxed and sharp then he remembers. Toya jumps in easily, voice effortless in a way he used to play his favorite old piano pieces, and he matches Akito’s grin easily as they merge their voices for the chorus.

What’s different this time, though, is the image he holds in his head. The environmental details of the verse lends itself to the two of them syncing easily, a ready-made image, but the chorus is all emotion. Back when they first chose it, Toya had analyzed it like a classical composer, or maybe something closer to a book report, singing the meaning rather than the feeling. His voice was driven by others, detached, and Akito worked hard to produce the cohesion they needed.

It doesn’t feel detached now. He can hear it in his voice, the pleading tone he hadn’t taken before, the desperation for understanding. It’s too exposed. It’s too much. It’s an admission he hadn’t meant to make, this want on full display when he’s still grappling with the shape of it. It’s reflexive, to try and tuck it back away and out of sight.

Except he blends with Akito’s voice better than he ever has before. They’re matching each other, perfectly in step, and to revoke it and revert back to his usual image is to draw more attention to it, a camouflaged animal frozen in place to avoid detection.

It's one of their best performances of this song. 

It's the most exposed Toya's ever felt in his life.

As Akito's eyes linger on his as they end, searching, wondering, he can't tell if it feels good or bad. They both know something has changed, felt the space between them shift with the energy of it. Akito's definitely aware this talk isn't going to be simple now, but he wonders if…maybe…

No, this is just the shadow of his want spilling over, distorting what he sees. He has to treat himself as compromised if he doesn't want to make this hurt more, even as doubt jabs at his mind.

Shiraishi slaps Akito on the back, breaking the spell. “What the hell was that?! When did you guys have time to practice on your own?”

“We didn't,” Akito says. He looks dazed.

“We've all improved a lot,” Azusawa says, a determined glint in her eye. “We have a long way to go, but we’ve worked hard to get here. We haven’t hit our ceiling yet.”

Akito grins, shaking off the last of his look and giving Kohane a quick fist bump. She eagerly returns it. “Couldn’t’ve said it better.”

“Here, here!” Shiraishi says, leaning heavily on her partner. She coughs suddenly, voice a little too throaty. “Sorry,” she says with a wince. “Overdid it a little bit.”

Akito doesn't look impressed as Azusawa worries over her. “Let's call it here. We’ll regroup in two days and decide what to do moving forward.” He sighs and looks at Shiraishi, who's pouting at the thought of another rest day. “Thanks for this. I needed it.”

“We all did,” Toya says.

Shiraishi sighs, but she looks satisfied. Her arms stretch over her head, and she lets out a breath as she releases her hold. “Wanna come to my place? Dad made some home-made ice cream for me.” She puts her hands on her hips proudly, like she made it herself. “I’ll let you have some.”

“It's rum raisin, isn't it?” Akito wrinkles his nose. ‘No thanks.”

Shiraishi sticks out her tongue. “Your loss. Come on, Kohane.” She links her arm with Azusawa and pulls her away, pausing only to grab their bags and offer a quick wave, ignoring Azusawa’s stuttered, laughing insistence of a proper goodbye.

The silence stretches between them. The sun has only just begun to set, the blue of the sky barely tinted. By this time, Vivid Street is in full swing. Music echoes around them, messy but never too much, a collision of sound that never quite becomes chaos. 

Akito raises his eyebrows. “Where to?”

Toya thought about this long and hard once he made the decision to tell him. School was ruled out, their houses are out of the question, so somewhere on Vivid Street became the only real answer. Their usual practice spot, this very park, came to mind, but even now there's too much foot traffic. Ken-san's is safe, but he doesn't want Shiraishi potentially overhearing; same with the Sekai. It’s a bit overtly romantic, but…

“The side street near Kamiyama Street?” Toya says, pulse pounding in his ears. “Not many people walk through there. It should be quiet.”

“Where we first met?” Akito says bluntly, gaze unblinking.

Flustered, Toya nods. It’s less embarrassing than pointing out it’s also the place Akito pulled him out of the fragment yesterday, at least, but something in the thoughtful frown on the other’s lips hints that he might be thinking about it too. 

Akito maintains his gaze for a few frantic heartbeats. Is it better for Toya to maintain eye contact even as heart drowns out the sound around him? Or does he look away and betray how much it affects him now? Or has he already given the game away during their practice?

Finally, Akito looks away. It's both a relief and a loss. “Let’s go, then.”

It’s a short walk to Kamiyama Street, but Akito talks the whole way about what he did during lunch to fill the silence. Apparently, one of the guys was stuck on a level in some video game. Akito off-handedly mentioned beating it when he was younger and got roped into the fight to beat it.

“I didn't even remember the controls!” he gripes, but there's a self-satisfied smirk on his face when he adds, “I beat it after five tries.”

Toya nods blankly, trying to come to terms with exactly how devastating that expression is to the heat in his gut. 

The expression turns sheepish, Akito rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry for missin’ lunch. He said you didn't seem too disappointed, though.” He flashes a small smile. “Not that that means much. Seems you're still a pretty unreadable guy to everyone else.”

Toya shrugs. A bubble of happiness takes root under his chest, light and infectious, though it turns into something more fluttery when mixed with this new feeling. It's nice, to be seen by someone. “My classmates say I'm more approachable now,” he offers.

“You are, but that poker face of yours takes some time to understand.” 

He smiles, small and teasing and uncontrollable. “But you do.”

“I do,” Akito acknowledges easily.

Heat rushes to Toya's face. He desperately hopes that the poker face Akito mentions holds true of his complexion as well.

The street is exactly how he remembers it. The lights and sounds of Vivid Street are faint here, and the sparse streetlamps that line the street haven’t yet flickered to life in the setting sun. A vending machine hums nearby, its products unchanged from the day they met. The buildings nearby are dark but for a few windows that glow like lightning bugs, though thankfully none of them are facing the street proper. On either side of the street people occasionally wander by, but none glance their way. 

The two of them move to a small, empty lot between buildings, shielding them from anyone else on the street. The bench is old, paint mostly peeled off, and the walls around them are full of graffiti tags. Across the way, a streetlight hums as it comes to life. Its base is clear of flowers, though a small bit of grass has begun to grow in a small crack in the sidewalk. Toya follows Akito to the bench but stays standing, mindful of the space between them. 

“So,” Akito says, moving to sit, “what's up?”

“I like you.”

The hollow, sustained sound of metal being hit rings out as Akito lands a little too hard on the bench, his hand colliding with the metal. No pain shows on his face; his body barely reacts to it. Instead his wide eyes stare at Toya, and a smile with too many teeth to be genuine hesitantly pulls at his lips. It's not unlike the one he wears at work, the one he uses with the polite tone that's so at odds with everything Toya knows about him.

“Okay, dude, what's the real–?” Akito stops. Toya doesn't know what expression he himself is wearing, but the slight note of panic that leaks into Akito's gives him a good guess. If it looks even a little as hurt as the stab of ice those words drove into his heart, it’s not pretty. “I’m sorry,” he says, serious as he’s ever been. “I’ll listen properly.”

Toya nods, closing his eyes against the hurt. That performance was a trick of the light, then. He counts a few breaths, resetting himself. It’s not quite a speech, per say, but he’s planned out what he wants to say as much as he could without writing it down.

“I like you,” he starts again, not looking at Akito, “and I think I’ve liked you for a while. I only realized yesterday what this feeling was, this preoccupation with the way you touch me and laugh with me and give me a space by your side. I never wanted to take advantage of that. You gave me this purpose and shared this dream you have with me until I made it mine.” He smiles, small and sad. “You disappeared from my life yesterday, and I saw what it was like without you– without anyone I met because of you, and it was unbearable. I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done for me.”

There’s a sharp inhale, like Akito’s about to say something, but he stays silent, waiting for him to finish. Toya’s grateful, even as he knows this next part will be the hardest. Already he can feel tongue going dry, his nervous heart balking, but he presses on.

“I want–” He cuts himself off, the words stuck in his throat. Somehow it’s so much worse to say “want” than “like,” but he won’t be disingenuous. He owes it to both of them, to this partnership they’ve built, to not obfuscate exactly what he means. “I want you,” he manages, and can’t help but hope it doesn’t expose exactly how many times he’s pictured his hands wandering over Akito. “I want to be by your side even more.

“It will probably take me a while to adjust, but it’ll be fine.” Meiko-san’s words are a balm, a reminder that this won’t be the end even when it feels like it is. “I decided to dedicate myself as your partner, and that won’t change. As long as we decide to stay partners, we can figure out what to do together. We’ll just have to change until neither of us are hurt by these…this–” 

He bites his tongue, gaze falling to the ground. The next word is “feelings.” He should say “feelings,” but his mouth shapes “thing” and it chokes him, the rest of his speech crumbling. 

It’s so unfair. 

They were fine. He was fine to just dismiss it all as a misunderstanding on his part, as a result of not having friends before now, and operate in ignorance. He had a spot next to Akito, had his smile and his platonic touch and his voice and this space beside him until he wanted more. He should still be fine with it– he will be, if given time– but it feels like his chest should be cracking apart. Why is this hollow feeling back? Why can’t he just rip this thing out of his heart and give it to Akito? Let him look at the hungry part of him that craves more and the soft part that just wants his arm around his shoulder and the content part that likes seeing him and the ugly part that can’t understand why Akito sang like that earlier. Why are these things intangible to him but so painful?

“Wait.” A tug on his wrist freezes him in place, the heat scalding. Slowly he looks up at Akito, taking in his dazed expression. “What do you mean adjust?”

“...Akito, I like you.”

“Yeah, I got that, but I got a bit lost at the end.” His eyes are locked on Toya’s. There’s no disgust, no discomfort, not even resignation. They’re probing, confused. “What do you mean ‘decide to stay partners?’ What’s changing?”

Toya scrambles a bit, still off-kilter after cutting off his speech. “I told you I want you. Why would you keep touching a guy who wants to kiss you when you don’t? Why would you keep hanging out with me like we have? You should have a partner that doesn't make you uncomfortable.”

Akito’s hold tightens. His hands aren’t that different from Toya’s. His fingers are shorter, but they’re firm and strong as they circle his wrist, unmarked from the years of practice he’s put into singing. It’s so unfair, that people can’t look at him and see the work he’s put in like Toya can.

 “Why are you assuming stuff without asking me?” Aktio says finally.

It feels like everything freezes. The sounds of Vivid Street, his breathing, his heart. 

“Huh?” he mutters.

“You skipped a step.” Akito’s voice is quiet. It wavers slightly, like it does after a show, stretched to its limit after he gave it his all. “You never asked me how I felt.”

“You don’t like me?” It comes out like a question instead of the statement he knows it to be. He clears his throat. “You don’t like me,” he says again, unwilling to disregard this truth for the sake of his own warped lens, “so to avoid making you uncomfortable, we have to adjust how we act–”

Akito tugs him without any strength. Toya still moves with it, standing in between Akito’s legs, the other’s knees barely touching his legs. “Ask me,” he says, voice wavering.

Toya closes his eyes against it, but this stupid thing inside him makes him feel light-headed with hope. He almost feels like he’s back in the fragment, but he’s too aware of how absurd this is, how reality simply isn’t like this no matter what his senses are telling him. 

If he wakes up from this, left with nothing to prove it’s real, he’ll break.

But Akito tugs at him again, and he can’t help being pulled along by him as always.

“How do you feel about me, Akito?”

“I like you, too,” he says simply.

Toya can feel his legs shaking. He thinks of how easily Azusawa and Shiraishi folded into each other and wants to collapse into Akito, but…

Before he wondered if everyone else walked around like this, with this feeling dogging their every move. Does Akito? Does he exist with this too big thing? Or will it be swallowed by Toya’s?

“Do you want–?”

“Yes,” Akito says softly. It feels more like a confession than an affirmation, heavy with a slightly different weight than Toya’s, but the shape of it is so similar he can trace it in his mind. It feels like it’ll go nicely with his own.

His arm is jerked forward, an inversion of that scene he pictured in the moment they fell in the fragment, and he stumbles forward. His other arm comes up in time to brace him, the back of the bench giving a bit at his sudden weight, and he opens his eyes with a gasp, expecting to find that darkness. 

Instead Akito is there. His olive eyes look almost brown in the shadow of Toya, looking at him like he looks before a live performance, nervous and determined and hungry. The hand around his wrist is tight, a slight tremble to it that further betrays his nerves, trapping his hand against Akito’s side. His free hand moves up, up to Toya’s neck where it stops short, the heat of it almost unnoticeable if not for how hyper aware Toya is of everything around him. 

“I’m gonna– can I…?” Akito’s voice is as breathless as Toya feels.

Toya nods eagerly, uncaring exactly what it is. A million possibilities flash in his mind, all of them making the nerves in his body coalesce into a low heat that hums through him with each thumping heart beat. “Yes,” he says, just to be sure, and Akito’s hand wraps around his neck and pulls him forward.

It’s chaste, the touching of lips just to try it. 

It’s not enough.

It’s all Toya can bear. 

He closes his eyes and feels Akito exhale against his lips as they separate. He’s still close enough to lean forward for another, so he does, briefly and clumsily, parting his lips for a quick taste and retreating just as quickly, satisfied to know even as it already disappears on his tongue.

The grip around his neck tightens and pulls him, making him yelp in surprise. Akito’s face settles against his shoulder, hot. Toya prepares to pull away, curious what expression the other’s making, but he remembers that day Akito battled with Shepard, dry eyes surrounded by skin reddened from rubbing, the slight waver of his voice that suggested tears he wouldn't admit to. Maybe, just like then, it will take time for Akito to let him see him in his entirety. 

He can wait. They have time.

Toya relaxes into the hold and feels Akito relax in kind. The hold on his wrist loosens, but he doesn’t move, content to feel the heat of their hands resting together, Akito’s thumb softly brushing along the sensitive skin of his wrist over and over. It’s strange, to feel the usual weight around his shoulders but so much closer. It’s somehow just as reassuring, even as his nervous pulse doesn’t settle down, unable to stop making him aware of Akito against his shoulder. 

“Anythin’ else you need to say?” Akito asks after a bit, voice muffled against his body. He pulls away from Toya, a rush of cold filling the space he occupied. His arm slides from his neck, but his hand stays on his shoulder. There’s a lingering embarrassment in the way his eyes don’t manage to stay on Toya’s face for long, and his face is still a bit flushed. It’s cute, and his hands itch to reach out and feel it before it disappears.

“I want to learn to draw,” Toya says, the words spilling out before he can think better of them. “Or, I guess ask your sister to teach me?”

Akito, taken back, sputters. “Why?”

“I…” Toya finally moves his hand from Akito’s grip, drifting to his necklace, fingers fiddling with the chain as it sways between them. “I want a picture of you.” Akito holds up his phone. “No– I mean, it’d be nice to have a picture there, too, but in the fragment, I could picture you. You and Shiraishi and Azusawa. I couldn't remember your names, but…you weren't there .” He lets go of his necklace, gesturing, trying to convey how it felt to have that image so clearly, to know they were somewhere out there without any proof to validate their existence. “All I had was a drawing in my notebook,” he finishes lamely, “and I don't think it was very good.”

Akito's eyes widen. “Hold on,” he says, and removes his hands entirely from Toya. He reaches down to fumble with his bag, giving Toya a clear view of the inside. It's definitely too empty to have all his homework, but the reproach on his tongue dies as Akito pulls out a familiar notebook. 

Not daring to hope, Toya goes to his own bag. Its twin sits neatly where he put it between two workbooks.

“Meiko-san told me ‘bout it this morning,” Akito says, clearly curious as Toya takes it with trembling hands. “Said Luka-san found it in an alley. What’s…?” Toya quickly flips it backwards, opening to the last page.

An amateur portrait stares back.

It's not as bad as he remembers, all things considered. It's clearly Akito, Shiraishi, and Azusawa, rendered as lovingly and as desperately as Toya had felt. Eraser smudges turn the white page gray, and scattered kanji and hiragana take up most of the free space, scratched out and rewritten as he had tried to remember their names. He stares at Akito's full page, at the small holes from where his pencil went through the thin page when he pressed too hard.

“‘S pretty good,” Akito says awkwardly. A cute dusting of pink outlines the bridge of his nose. 

Toya closes it, hiding away the desperation that leaps off the page. “It’s better than I usually draw,” he admits, putting it safely in his bag. “I wonder if being created in the fragment gave it a more realistic quality somehow? Like my mental picture of you mattered more than my actual ability.”

Akito shrugs. “Whatever makes sense.” His shoes scuffs against the ground as he shifts, tapping his foot a few times. Toya wonders if he can try to chase that expression away now, if that’s okay. “I don't wanna think about that place again. It was awful not being able to go after you.” He quickly waves his phone, solemn expression clearing. “Still want a picture?” 

Toya nods eagerly. They move towards each other, stopping short, shuffling awkwardly.  “Let's use my phone,”  he suggests. 

Akito nods jerkily, accepting it. He holds up Toya's phone with one hand, then hesitates, his other hovering uncertainly before settling in its usual spot around Toya's shoulders, pulling him close. Then it tightens, pulling Toya down a bit farther, and Akito's face is against his own, warm and solid, setting his nerves alight at the unfamiliar feeling. There's the sound of a shutter, and Toya thinks he smiles for the next few, but most of his brain power is concentrated on the proximity.

This won't be the only time , he reminds himself. He likes you too .

The phone is handed back to him, but Akito doesn't release his hold. He looks over the pictures with Toya, laughing at his bewildered expression in the first one.

“Send me all of those,” he says, voice vibrating against Toya’s skin. Toya hums, and Akito shivers next to him. Neither of them move, and Toya likes to think the other is savoring their new closeness as well.

“I always thought you just kinda tolerated this,” Akito admits suddenly, voice low. “Me touching you so much. Didn't realize you liked it.”

“It's nice,” Toya says, and tries to infuse how much it meant to him, to be treated so casually, to feel kind hands after a hard day of practice. Judging by the way Akito relaxes further against him, he does.

Toya smiles. Somehow the want doesn't feel so big or so alien anymore, knowing that they share it. Just like always, they reduce each other's burdens, make each other better, a constant push and pull that feels like well-learned choreography. Akito had blamed himself for the state of that fragment, but it had always been the two of them who put it in that state, a stalemate between a man who runs recklessly ahead and one who runs away. When Toya needed him to, Akito pulled him on ahead with him like he always has.

Akito takes his hand in his, lacing their fingers together with a determined carefulness and deliberately schooled expression that makes Toya’s chest ache. He squeezes back, thrilled to watch Akito’s ears turn red. He can’t wait for what this new thing between them, warm and frail, will look like.

Maybe it’s his turn to pull Akito along.