Chapter Text
Hanemiya Kazutora doesn’t have any experience with lucid dreaming. For the past two years, he hasn’t even been able to remember most of his dreams beyond vague impressions and the ever-present weight of fear and dread he’s come to associate with sleep. He’ll remember his father yelling, the image of his mother on the floor, the sound of metal hitting bone, and police sirens, but never the context surrounding them. Even those small flashes inevitably slip through his fingers moments after waking, leaving him with nothing but his rapid heartbeat and unsteady breaths.
The fact that he’s aware he’s dreaming at all is already unusual enough, but the level of detail only makes it stranger.
He’s curled up in the corner of an unfamiliar bathroom floor, stifling sobs as he digs his fingernails into his forearms, hugging his knees to his chest. He tries to move, only to find that he can’t; he’s trapped as only a passive observer within his own body. If he ignores the way he can feel his chest shaking and his heart rattling in his ribcage, the whole thing almost feels like watching a movie.
His stuttering breaths are the only thing he can hear, and they’re all the louder for it in the darkness of the room. He tries to focus on the details of the tiles underneath him, letting his eyes trail down a crack slivering across the floor as he tries to orient himself. He doesn’t know where he is, why he’s crying, why he can’t move, or why he’s dreaming of any of this in the first place.
The sound of footsteps from somewhere outside the room has his body moving without his input, holding his breath and slapping a hand over his mouth to muffle any noise.
There’s a soft knock on the door, followed by a quiet, “Kazutora-kun?”
The sound of his name startles him, but the dream forces him to remain silent and still. He can feel his heartbeat pounding in his chest, his head, his ears. The man on the other side of the door shuffles his feet when Kazutora fails to answer.
“Is everything okay? You’ve been in there for a while.”
Kazutora stays silent, but the hand over his mouth begins to shake.
“I’m going to come in, okay?” A moment passes, and when Kazutora doesn’t protest (can’t protest), the door slowly opens, letting a small pool of light flood in from the entrance. Kazutora can’t make out the face of the man that enters until he flips on the light switch, and in the moment where Kazutora’s eyes adjust to the sudden change, the stranger has moved to sit in front of him.
Kazutora is certain he’s never seen this man before. He looks older than him, although he can’t tell by how much, with a black undercut and seafoam green eyes. He’s wearing a rumpled set of cat pajamas and looks like he only just rolled out of bed, but his eyes are alert and displaying a level of concern that leaves Kazutora disconcerted. He isn’t used to people worrying about him after these last two years in juvie. Is this dream just his own mind’s pathetic attempt at self-comfort?
He immediately dismisses the thought. His sentence is almost over, and he’ll have all the comfort he needs once he gets his revenge on Mikey. Dreaming of some stranger offering empty support is something he would have imagined when he was ten. He’s not a little kid anymore, goddammit.
“Was it another nightmare?”
The man’s question snaps Kazutora back into the moment. Out of his control, his body moves in a shaky nod.
“Did you remember any of it this time?” the man asks, his tone gentle. Another nod from Kazutora. “Was it… the same as last time?” he asks tentatively.
Kazutora shakes his head, gripping his knees tighter to his body. His mouth moves to say, “It was…”
The man waits patiently for Dream Kazutora to finish, moments passing as Kazutora feels the muscles of his body tense, untense, and tense again in rhythm with his breathing.
“…It was Shinichiro,” his body finally croaks out.
The second he hears it, it’s like a bucket of acid has been poured over Kazutora’s head. What the fuck is this? Why is he being forced to sit through a conversation about that day as if he doesn’t already think about it enough? As if he doesn’t know how he’s going to deal with it? He doesn’t need to cry on a stranger’s floor over this shit, because the whole thing was Mikey’s fault, and once he kills him, he’ll never have to think about it again. The fear from the dream and the rage from Kazutora’s conscious mind mix into a nauseating jumble in his head as he tries in vain to seize control of his body and stop this farce.
“Kazutora…” the man starts, a sad expression falling over his face. Kazutora hates it. He doesn’t need anyone’s pity. The man seems to struggle with what to say, eventually landing on, “You were just a kid.”
“Doesn’t change anything,” Dream Kazutora replies. He lowers his head, hiding his face from the other man and effectively cutting off Kazutora’s view of his surroundings.
He can’t believe what he’s hearing right now. If Mikey had told him he had a brother, that his brother had a bike shop, then Kazutora wouldn’t have been there in the first place. If Mikey hadn’t gone and wrecked his own bike, Kazutora wouldn't have tried to steal one for his birthday. If Mikey hadn’t tricked him, Kazutora wouldn’t have lost the last two years of his life.
It wasn’t Kazutora’s fault. It wasn’t. He keeps repeating it in his head, fear and desperation lying just beneath the rage, a box rattling as what lies inside stirs for the first time in a long while.
The man sighs. “Kazutora,” he says. “Look at me.”
Kazutora’s head rises from his knees, looking back at the stranger. There’s a note of determination mixed in with the sadness in his eyes.
“I’m not going to say that you didn’t do something terrible,” he says, “because yeah, you did. But you were also just a stupid kid trying to do something nice for you friend. Things like this… they’re rarely simple enough where one person holds all the blame, you know? Your mom should have made sure you weren’t getting into that kind of trouble. People in the neighborhood that saw the two of you sneaking around should have questioned you.” In a hushed voice, almost guilty, he says, “Baji-san never should have agreed to the idea in the first place.”
“It wasn’t his fault—!” Dream Kazutora frantically denies as a new wave of panic overcomes him.
“I know it wasn’t his fault,” the man interjects in a tone meant to be reassuring. “What I’m saying is that there were so many things that needed to go wrong for that moment to happen. When you walked into that shop, were you planning to kill someone?”
“No,” Dream Kazutora is quick to respond, an undercurrent of please believe me in his voice that makes Kazutora sick to his stomach.
“I know,” the man assures, calm and comforting. “It was an accident. You were a dumb kid and made a mistake you couldn’t undo. You were forgiven a long time ago. The only thing you can do to move forward now is forgive yourself.”
“I didn’t know it would happen,” Dream Kazutora manages between his heaving. “I was just trying to knock him out. He saw Baji’s face and I—I didn’t know—I didn’t know—”
The man wraps him in a hug that Dream Kazutora clings to greedily, muffling his cries into the man’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” the man says quickly. “I’m not very good at this. These things take time; I won’t rush you. But I won’t leave you behind either, okay, Kazutora? Even if you think you deserve it.”
Kazutora doesn’t even know how to describe the sound his body makes at that. “Ch—” his dream self cries out, but the rest is lost as the scene slips away.
Kazutora wakes with a start, flinging himself from the bed and dashing to the corner of the room, violently slamming into the wall in his disorientation. His cellmate rolls over with a grumble as Kazutora vomits up last night’s dinner.
“Eugh, gross, man,” the other boy mumbles, but one look from Kazutora is enough to shut him up.
What kind of dream was that? Kazutora’s hands and legs are shaking as he tries to regain some control over his breathing. He leans his back against the wall and slowly slides himself onto the floor next to his mess. He goes to pull his knees to his chest, recognizes it as the same position from his dream, and quickly shoots his legs straight in front of him instead.
Things like this… they’re rarely simple enough where one person holds all the blame.
That’s not true. That can’t be true, because Mikey holds all the blame for what happened that night. Kazutora has no reason to feel guilty, no reason to cry, no reason to have nightmares—
He staggers to his feet and starts pacing his cell, trying to shake off the lingering panic sending tremors through his body. He shouldn’t be reacting so strongly to things like this. He’s one of the most feared guys in juvie, and if any of them found out he was knocked on his ass by something as stupid as a dream where he sobbed like a child in front of a stranger, then his reputation would never recover.
The contents of the dream play back in his mind on loop as he sits there, biting the inside of his cheek so he won’t make more noise. Rarely simple enough where one person holds all the blame. Rarely simple enough where one person holds all the blame. Rarely simple enough—
It’s not like it would even matter if Mikey wasn’t fully to blame. He’s mostly to blame, that’s for damn sure, and Kazutora isn’t going to just let him get away with sticking him in this hellhole for two years. Two years he’ll never get back, while Mikey was living it up on the outside. By this point, everyone has moved on with their lives. Baji has some new vice captain he’s been mentioning in his letters for months, and every time Kazutora reads about him he absolutely seethes. Kazutora is being replaced, and it’s all Mikey’s fault for putting him in here. Everyone will be completely different from how Kazutora remembers them by the time they meet again.
But Kazutora isn’t the same either. He knows better now, and he won’t allow himself to be manipulated by Mikey or anyone else ever again. He’ll kill Mikey, take back his place at Baji’s side, and then everything will be okay again.
He repeats this to himself as he continues pacing, muttering it under his breath when the hint of uncertainty persists. Now isn’t the time to have doubts. He’s being released in one month, and he needs to be ready.
He doesn’t get any sleep for the rest of the night, nor does that uncertainty fully leave him.
He does his best to push the dream from his mind after that. It unsettled him, though he won’t readily admit it, so he pours his focus into ideas for how he’ll confront Mikey. He needs to get him alone; Toman won’t let Kazutora kill their leader without a fight, and he can’t give Mikey any opportunity to escape justice. For all their talk of friendship and loyalty, Baji was the only one to side with Kazutora. The rest of Toman aren’t Kazutora’s real friends, and once he’s done with Mikey, they’ll see that he was right all along. Kazutora is going to tear Mikey’s precious Toman apart, and it will only be what he is owed for all his suffering.
The thought keeps returning to him unbidden, though. One person rarely holds all the blame. It’s wrong, obviously, but in his weaker moments, Kazutora wonders. If it really wasn’t all Mikey’s fault, then would that mean Kazutora has to kill whoever else was responsible? The man in the dream said Baji held some responsibility, but that doesn’t make any sense. Baji is good. He’s the only one that has stayed loyal to Kazutora after what happened that night, even if… even if he’s still in Toman, after everything they did to Kazutora…
Mikey is the one that’s bad, the one that locked Kazutora away and ruined his life. It’s different. That’s why Mikey has to be the one to die. Kazutora keeps repeating it until it makes sense, until it’s the only thing that makes sense, vowing not to linger on these thoughts any longer.
The box inside him continues to rattle.
Kazutora knows very well that there’s comfort to be found in the feeling of split knuckles and the smell of blood.
He doesn’t remember the name of the boy he just beat to a bloody pulp. Honestly, he probably didn’t even know it to begin with. He doesn’t bother talking to most of the guys in here outside of fights, and he has enough of a reputation that everyone already knows his name in their first week.
“That guy with the white streaks and tiger tattoo—that’s Hanemiya Kazutora. I would stay away from him if I were you. He’s quick to send people to the infirmary if they look at him the wrong way, and rumor has it he’s in here for murder.”
Kazutora has overheard plenty of variations of that during his time here. It’s not like he gives a shit if people are afraid of him, because in a place like this, fear is power, and power is safety. If they know what’s good for them, though, they should quit talking about shit they don’t understand. Kazutora is no murderer.
He continues to kick the guy well past the point where he’s stopped fighting back. Another boy comes at Kazutora for what he’s done to the nobody underneath him, and Kazutora feels his awareness leave him as he takes down idiot after idiot that tries to challenge him.
This happens sometimes. Kazutora has blank spots in his memory from when his brain disconnects from his body, leaving it to operate on autopilot while Kazutora is somewhere else. It makes boring, repetitive fights like this easier to get through, and from what he’s heard in hushed whispers he wasn’t meant to overhear, he looks pretty intimidating whenever it happens.
When he comes back to himself, he’s covered in blood and surrounded by groaning, bruised bodies. He gives the closest guy one last kick for good measure, then moves to the other side of the cafeteria. One of the monitors shoots him a look of bored derision, despite never once stepping in to stop the fight. Fucking hypocrite.
People quickly move out of his way and leave an entire table empty for him. They treat Kazutora like a wild animal, as if he’ll attack without cause. Kazutora always has cause, and it’s not his fault if no one bothers to learn what pisses him off. If people want to talk shit about him, then they should be prepared to face the consequences.
It doesn’t take too long for a few guys to make their way over to Kazutora, either too bold or too stupid to take heed of his bad mood. They have smiles on their faces that scream of arrogance and walk like they have something to prove. They’re the type of guys that want to be seen as cool so desperately that Kazutora will never see them as anything but lame.
“Hey, Hanemiya-san, right?” says the leader of a little group of three. He has a piece of food stuck in his teeth. “Saw what you did to those chumps over there. Pretty cool, heh.”
The other two voice their agreement, an eager look in their eyes. Despite his irritation, Kazutora can’t help but preen a little at the compliment.
“It’s just Kazutora,” he says, admittedly a little curious. There aren’t many people that approach him for anything other than a brawl these days. These guys are new. “If you thought that was cool, you must be pretty shit in a fight.”
The grins on the guys’ faces seem to falter, but the leader recovers quickly. “We’ve been in plenty of fights on the outside, but this was the first one we’ve seen in juvie. We only got here a couple days ago. It’s a whole different beast, I’ll tell you that,” he says with an obnoxious laugh.
Kazutora has seen plenty of fights on the outside that were just as bad as this, so these guys are definitely posers, but he doesn’t bother to call them on it.
“A couple days ago, huh? What’d you get busted for?” he asks with no genuine interest. It couldn’t have been anything too noteworthy if Kazutora hasn’t heard any mention of them yet. The speed at which gossip travels through juvie would put the aunties in his old apartment building to shame.
A bit of hesitation leaks into the guy’s expression. “I, uh—well, we got snitched on for tagging a few walls.”
Kazutora can’t help it—he bursts out laughing. These hot shots think they’re big shit because they got sent to juvie on vandalism charges? What a fucking joke.
They all laugh along with him despite the two lackeys’ obvious discomfort, which only makes Kazutora laugh even harder. They really have no idea what kind of world they’ve been thrown into, do they? They’re going to be eaten alive.
“A-anyways, rumor has it you’re getting out soon,” the leader pushes on, trying to regain control of the conversation. “You must be pretty excited about that, right?” He seems nervous, like he’s trying to make a good impression. Fat chance of that.
“That’s right,” Kazutora says. “I have a lot of plans for what I’m gonna do when I ditch this dump.”
“Heh, yeah, I bet,” he says. He hypes himself up for a moment before asking, “Hey, you were part of a gang before you ended up here, yeah? The Tokyo Manji Gang?”
Kazutora’s anger immediately spikes back up, and a ringing in his ears blocks out the rest of whatever the boy in front of him is saying. Everything is about Toman with these people—it’s either that or the incident that landed Kazutora in this place to begin with. When is everyone going to take the fucking hint and stop bringing it up?
“—think we would be pretty good, and thought maybe you could put in a good wor—”
Kazutora feels the boy’s nose break under his fist, the sound of the crunch nice and crisp. Just another piece of shit trying to use Kazutora for his own gain. He doesn’t know why he’s surprised; that’s just how the world is. But Kazutora will be damned if he lets these dumb fuckers think getting in good with him is their big ticket to high status in the delinquent world. If they’re prepared to poke a tiger, then they’d best be prepared to get mauled.
He lets himself fade in and out as he takes all three of them down at once—not that they put up much of a fight.
“Don’t you ever, ever say that name to me again, you hear me?” He pulls one of the lackeys’ arms backwards until he hears a crack, and the boy starts wailing like a child.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, we won’t do it again,” the leader cries, making a scene right in the middle of the cafeteria. After a performance like this, all three of them will have targets on their backs. No weakness goes unexploited here, after all.
Kazutora scoffs in disgust, but leaves it at that. Now they’ll know better than to fuck with bigger fish in the pond, so he’s done them a favor, really.
For some reason, though, the sight of blood on his hands makes him a little queasy, and it’s only made worse by the image of the head wounds on the guys scrambling to get away from him.
He forces himself not to think about it.
Four nights after the first, Kazutora finds himself in another strange dream.
This time, he’s in the passenger seat of an expensive car, parked on a rooftop parking lot with a picturesque view of the Tokyo skyline. He’s looking at the man in the driver’s seat—the same man from the last dream, but also… not quite. It’s the same face, hair, eyes, but he carries himself differently. He has a jaded and exhausted air to him that wasn’t present in the last dream, and he seems like he might be a bit older. The suit he’s wearing looks like it costs more than Kazutora’s mother’s rent, and the basic jeans and bomber jacket that adorn Kazutora leave him feeling underdressed.
“It’s not your fault,” Kazutora feels himself saying.
The man glances at him, unimpressed, before returning his gaze to the sun setting on the horizon.
“I’m serious,” Dream Kazutora continues. “Kisaki is to blame for this. Don’t let him get inside your head. He probably only sent the job your way because he knew this was how you’d react. He’s trying to get to you.”
The mention of death has Kazutora on guard. This dream better not be like the last one. There had better be no mention of him again.
The man is silent for a few moments before he lets out a world-weary sigh, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back on the headrest. “You’re probably right that he was just trying to fuck with me. Doesn’t make much of a difference in the end, though. It was still my finger on the trigger.”
The man leans forward and rests his head in one of his hands, the exhaustion pouring off him in waves. Kazutora tries to follow the conversation as best he can with what little context he has, but all he’s able to glean is that the man killed someone, maybe multiple people, on the orders of someone named Kisaki.
“You know it’s not that simple, Chifuyu,” Dream Kazutora says. Chifuyu. The man’s name is Chifuyu. “He backed you into a corner. If you hadn’t done it, Kisaki would have called your loyalty into question, and if he got rid of you, then there would be no one left to take him down. Even more people would end up dead.”
“I know that,” the man—Chifuyu—says. “It doesn’t change the fact that I’m the one who killed them. Even if I justify it with as many reasons as I can, the blood is still on my hands.” He looks over at Kazutora, an old, heavy grief weighing down his expression. “I still have to push forward, though, or this will have all been for nothing. The only thing I can do is carry their deaths on my shoulders.”
Those last words were said with weight, a deeper meaning Kazutora doesn’t understand lurking beneath the surface. A lump forms in his throat, though he doesn’t know why.
“Right,” Dream Kazutora chokes out. “That’s all we can do.”
Something lighter breaks through the darkness of Chifuyu’s expression, and he places a hand on Kazutora’s knee. “You shouldn’t show me more grace than you show yourself.”
Dream Kazutora nods, throat too tight to give a real response.
The two sit in somber silence for a long while, watching the sun sink beneath the buildings in the distance.
This dream doesn’t leave Kazutora waking in the same panic as the last one. It leaves him more confused than anything.
What the hell was that Chifuyu guy going on about, anyway? If Kisaki, whoever that is, was the one that made him go out and shoot people, then it’s Kisaki’s fault they’re dead, plain and simple.
Even if I justify it with as many reasons as I can, the blood is still on my hands.
That doesn’t make any sense. By that logic… by that logic, even though Mikey tricked him, Kazutora would be responsible for Shinichiro’s death. Which he’s not. It’s Mikey’s fault. Kazutora knows that, but these dreams are confusing him.
He grips his hair and yanks, yanks, keeps yanking until he feels more grounded. This Chifuyu is a man of contradictions. Is what happened everyone’s fault, like he said in the first dream, or Kazutora’s fault, like he said in the second?
He doesn’t know why he’s even entertaining this. Chifuyu is clearly wrong, because if he knew anything about anything, he’d know that Shinichiro’s death was all Mikey’s fault and that Kazutora is innocent.
…Why is he getting so upset over this? The second dream didn’t have anything to do with Shinichiro, but that’s all Kazutora is thinking about.
The thing lying in the box is scratching at the walls, creating fissures from which to escape.
Kazutora doesn’t eat breakfast that morning, still offput by the contents of his dreams. He’s exhausted and low energy, not bothering to listen to any of the rumors going around or watch any of the fights breaking out.
“Yo, Kazutora,” he hears as the seat next to him is claimed. “Heard eleven guys got broken bones after fucking with you yesterday.”
Chonbo isn’t his friend, but he’s better for conversation than most of the guys in here, and he can actually handle himself in a fight. Even better, he knows what buttons not to press when it comes to Kazutora, and he’s quick to fuck off when he sees he’s not wanted. True friends are exceedingly rare here, something Kazutora learned a long time ago. He’d thought Kensho was his friend, and look where that got him. Despite being out of juvie for over a year, Kazutora hasn’t heard a peep from him or any of his little hangers-on. No visit, no letter, no nothing. Everyone betrays him in the end, no matter the circumstances that brought them together.
“What of it?” Kazutora mutters.
“Just wanted to see if it was true. Toman ain’t gonna know what hit ‘em when you’re let loose.”
A week ago, hearing that would have elated Kazutora. Right now, though, he feels like shit from sleep deprivation, which must be why the thought of taking down Toman isn’t as exhilarating or vindicating as it usually is. He’ll probably be back to normal by tomorrow.
Kazutora doesn’t bother to reply, and that’s out of character enough for Chonbo to send him a curious look. He doesn’t know Kazutora for shit, so where does he get off acting like his behavior is unusual? His annoyance must show, because Chonbo changes the subject.
“Chome says he got in good with some new gang that’s letting him crash at their hideout,” he says. Chome only got out about five weeks ago, but Chonbo has been acting as if it’s been years. “Apparently the shit that goes on in here ain’t too well known out there, so juvie info is in high demand. Nosy motherfuckers, huh? I’m thinking about joining him once I get out.”
Kazutora isn’t sure why anyone would care about most of the goings on in here, but whatever. Good for Chome, since he’s pretty sure he mentioned not having a place to crash once he got out. Kazutora still isn’t quite sure if he’ll have a place to go himself, so he won’t begrudge Chome for doing what it takes to survive.
“He better not be spreading any shit about me,” Kazutora warns, picking at some of the scratches on the table.
“Pretty sure everyone already knows about you,” Chonbo replies. Kazutora’s eye twitches.
“The hell is that supposed to mean?” he grits out.
Chonbo pauses at the unexpected reaction. “You just got a bit of a reputation, is all. One of the strongest guys in here and all that.”
You’re a loose cannon that got thrown in here for murder. You fly off the handle at the slightest perceived provocation. There’s only one person left out there that’s still willing to even associate with you. You’re more trouble than you’re worth in every way imaginable.
Kazutora knows what people really think of him. His fists shake from how hard he’s clenching them, digging crescents into his palm that are surely drawing blood, and he sees Chonbo glance at them discreetly.
“Well, enjoy your breakfast,” he says, standing up and leaving in no real hurry, always getting out of dodge before shit actually hits the fan.
I don’t even have a tray, jackass, he thinks.
Before, Kazutora used to reassure himself that even if people think he’s crazy right now, they’ll all understand later that he was the only one that actually knew the truth. He’d still kick people’s asses for saying it, obviously, but it was always with the knowledge that it was temporary. What is he supposed to do if killing Mikey doesn’t actually change anyone’s mind? If people still think he’s just as unstable after the deed is done?
The thought nags at him for the rest of the day, and he avoids being near anyone as much as he can. He’s twitchy and visibly irritable, which is enough to have most people give him a wide berth. That only ends up making him more bad-tempered as the hours go by.
Chonbo doesn’t bother talking to him at lunch or dinner.
That night, alone in the darkness, Kazutora allows himself to consider something he’d vehemently refused to touch. Maybe… maybe the first dream was right, and it isn’t all Mikey’s fault. Mikey was just one of many people who screwed up, even if he definitely did it the worst. And maybe Mikey tricked Kazutora into breaking into the bike shop, but Kazutora was still the one that swung that wrench. So maybe… maybe it’s a little bit Kazutora’s fault, too, and even if he had a good reason, he’s still partially responsible for what happened.
The idea scares him. He tries to shake it away, shove it back in the box, but it sticks to him and nestles under his skin. I killed Shinichiro. I killed Shinichiro. I killed Shinichiro.
It’s different, though. It’s not like Kazutora knew he was Mikey’s brother, and it’s not like he knew that a hit to the head would kill him. He saw Baji’s face! What was Kazutora supposed to do!?
He shoves his shaky hands over his mouth so his cellmate won’t hear his hyperventilating. Kazutora hates this. It was easier when he knew that it was all Mikey’s fault, but now, no matter how hard he tries, he can’t stop thinking, I killed Shinichiro.
And unlike before, the thought of killing Mikey isn’t helping.
Ever since he had those dreams, Kazutora has been struggling to choke down his food or get a full night’s rest. It feels like he’s being hunted, followed by some looming threat hanging over his head, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. His doubts fester more and more each day as he isolates himself from the rest of the inmates, lingering off to the side during meals and time in the yard, chewing his nails and scratching at his forearms. He’s trying to keep the box inside of him closed with his bare hands, to force the secret he’s been keeping from himself back into the darkness where he doesn’t have to face it.
Some people become a little bolder in his presence once it becomes clear he isn’t looking to start any fights. He overhears their whispers, speculating on his recent change and mocking him for his newly emerging weakness.
“Crazy-ass finally lost it or something?”
“You shoulda seen him when they first brought him in. More of a return to form than anything.”
“Ryo-kun has been rooming with him for the last two months, says he paces and talks to himself every night.”
“Didn’t he say he keeps blowing chunks, too?”
“Betcha he’s scared ‘cause he’s boutta be let out. All that shit talk about taking down the Invincible Mikey is finally gonna catch up to him!”
“How long do you think it’ll take before he ends up right back in here?”
“Could just as easily end up dead in a ditch. Something ain’t right with his head."
Kazutora slaps his hands over his ears, shaking his head violently in an attempt to dislodge the words he’s overheard. He’s not crazy. He’s not crazy. He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s supposed to do if it turns out he was wrong, if what happened wasn’t really Mikey’s fault. It has to be Mikey’s fault, because if it’s not, then that means it was Kazutora’s.
“Look, look! He’s freaking out over there!”
“Fucking freak.”
“Ain’t surprised he killed someone acting like that.”
Kazutora abruptly turns from where he was facing the wall, huddled in the corner of the cafeteria. The faces of the boys pale as soon as he looks at them, all of their bravado and false superiority fleeing in the presence of a true threat.
They stumble as they quickly move to get out of their seats, never once turning their backs on Kazutora as he approaches.
Kazutora isn’t crazy. He’s not crazy. He’s not crazy. He’s not crazy.
Kazutora loses time. He tries to shake off the feeling of fear, to bury it down and ignore it, but the rage he would usually cling to is absent. Two weeks ago, he knew with utmost certainty that what happened that day wasn’t his fault, that he wasn’t the one that murdered Mikey’s brother, not really, but his head has been such a mess lately that the truth has become murky and difficult to grasp. What does it mean that Baji is the only one that continues to support Kazutora? That even then, Baji has never directly confirmed that Mikey was to blame, only ever vowing to stay by Kazutora’s side?
Is there a single person out there that believes Kazutora wasn’t at fault? What does it mean if there isn’t?
His focus returns to the moment in front of him, and it’s absolute carnage. A guard is pulling him off a boy lying unconscious on the ground, blood gushing from a broken nose and his leg bent at a sickening angle.
Kazutora doesn’t remember doing this. Does that mean anything? His legs shudder as guard hauls him up, a familiar feeling churning in his stomach and creeping up the back of his throat.
The guard is spitting curses after Kazutora’s vomit covers nearly the entire front of his uniform, but Kazutora is too out of it to acknowledge it in any real capacity. His surroundings are getting hazy, and he wonders if he might pass out before they can throw him in the hole for causing more trouble than the monitors could get away with ignoring. He doesn’t, but his awareness goes in and out in a disorienting manner.
Kazutora has been in solitary plenty of times before. It’s a tiny room with a toilet and an approximation of a bed, with no windows and no roommates. Food comes in through a slat in the door, and he isn’t allowed to bring his letters from Baji. It’s the only place Kazutora can truly escape the eyes of the other inmates, but it also leaves him with only his own mind for company.
And what company it is right now, feeding into his doubts and fears, sending Kazutora spiraling further down into the abyss. The whispers of people observing Kazutora from the outside will never be able to compare to what Kazutora’s own subconscious can form.
I killed Shinichiro. I killed Shinichiro. I killed Shinichiro.
Fifteen days until his release.
Kazutora continues his next five days with the box inside him creaking, shaking, distending from what remains inside. When the third dream starts, he can feel one of the walls buckle. He doesn’t know how much longer he can hold it together.
Kazutora and Chifuyu—the one in the suit, not the one with the cat pajamas—are sitting at the bar of a fancy apartment holding glasses of whiskey. The detail work gives them a crystalline quality, and Kazutora finds himself studying the way light refracts off its surface. He focuses his gaze on the bottle on the table, recognizing it as one of the cheap brands his father used to drink.
“I was still new to that side of the business back then,” Chifuyu says, swirling the liquid in his glass. “It’s not that I’d never killed anyone before—at that point, I don’t think there was anyone left with clean hands in the whole inner circle of the gang—but that was the first time…” Chifuyu trails off.
Kazutora watches him throw back his drink and refill his glass. He’s stalling, but Dream Kazutora doesn’t call him on it. He already seems pretty tipsy, and Kazutora wonders how long they’ve been at it.
“There were no orders to kill her. I mean, if someone is a threat, we have clearance to take them out even without direct orders, so long as they’re not part of the upper echelon of the gang or on the No-Hit List.”
Kazutora can see Chifuyu’s knuckles turning white from how hard he’s clenching the glass.
“I had just gotten off another job. It was supposed to be a deal, but it ended up being a setup. I only made it out through sheer luck. I was still on high alert, looking over my shoulder for danger.” Chifuyu’s words come out stilted, like he has to force them out. “I was hiding in a back alley waiting for a pickup from Takemichi. I was hurt, and when someone came up behind me… I didn’t think twice. Before I even realized what I was doing, I’d already shot her twice in the chest.”
Chifuyu is holding the glass with both hands now, shoulders tense and hunched over in shame.
“She had no gang affiliation. She didn’t even live in Tokyo, was just on a family visit… and now she’s dead. All because she walked next to me.”
They lapse into silence. Kazutora’s fingers twitch toward Chifuyu, as if he wants to reach out. Chifuyu gives up on the glass and goes straight for the bottle.
“It’s different when you weren’t planning to do it, you know? When I’m given orders to kill, even if it’s someone innocent, even if it’s over a petty grudge, I can tell myself it’s necessary for our goal, that all of the sacrifice will be worth it. Even if I can’t sleep at night, even if I can never wash my hands of the things I’ve done… if I can make things the way they used to be, then it won’t have been for nothing.” He takes another swig from the bottle, his hand squeezing the neck hard enough that Kazutora wonders if he’ll end up breaking it. “This wasn’t like that, though. If I’d let her walk away, no one would have even known. No one would have cared. I wouldn’t have done it if I’d been thinking clearly.” Chifuyu lets out a bitter laugh, face screwed up in a grimace. “No one else understood. Either didn’t know why I was upset in the first place or said it was good for stress relief,” he says, the last two words spat out with venom.
“I understand better than most,” Dream Kazutora finally speaks, voice soft in a way that feels foreign to him. The implication leaves Kazutora nauseous.
Chifuyu looks at him for a moment, mind moving slowly through the haze of alcohol, before a look of realization crosses his face.
“Oh,” he says, tone surprised. “You do know what it’s like, don’t you?”
Chifuyu scoots to pivot on his barstool and face Kazutora directly, lurching sideways in a tell of his inebriation. Dream Kazutora manages to catch him and help him regain his balance before he falls off completely.
“How long does it take to get over it?” Chifuyu asks once he’s been righted, words slurring together.
Kazutora wishes his dream self would drink some of the whiskey, so that way he could at least be drunk for this mess. He doesn’t want to think about this, doesn’t want to feel this kinship with Chifuyu and his situation. Kazutora doesn’t want to acknowledge what he’s been running from, what these dreams have allowed to catch up to him so quickly. The box is falling apart in his hands, and the only thing left inside is a bloody wrench.
“I don’t know,” Dream Kazutora says.
When Kazutora wakes, he cries for a long, long time. He doesn’t bother hiding it when there’s no one around to hear, just lays there, openly sobbing for what could have been hours.
It wasn’t Mikey’s fault. It had never been Mikey’s fault, no matter how much Kazutora managed to convince himself. Kazutora was the one to kill Shinichiro, even if he didn’t mean to, even if he was running on adrenaline, fear, and a need to protect Baji. Of course his other friends don’t want anything to do with him after what he’s done.
Kazutora ruined everything.
He can barely feel the air coming into his lungs with his heaving, and his head is pounding so hard that gray spots edge into his vision with every breath.
No wonder everyone abandoned him.
Why the hell is Baji still sticking with Kazutora after what he did? After what he refused to take responsibility for? Kazutora has been writing to Baji about his plans to kill Mikey since the moment Baji sent his first letter, and he hasn’t stopped in all the time since.
Kazutora doesn’t deserve Baji’s loyalty. He knows from Baji’s early letters, before he wizened up and realized there was nothing he could say to change Kazutora’s mind, that Baji and Mikey’s friendship had become strained, that it had partially bled through to his friendships with the other members of the gang. Is it still like that? Just how badly did Kazutora wreck Baji’s life?
He continues to spiral, dragging his fingernails down his arms in an attempt to ground himself. His presence would only make things worse for Baji, wouldn’t it? Kazutora is nothing but a reminder of Baji’s lowest moment, an anchor weighing him down, a wall between him and the people he cares about.
Kazutora is Baji’s biggest mistake.
He knows Baji would give up what he has in Toman for his sake; he’s said as much before. In every letter, he assures Kazutora that when he gets out of juvie, whatever he decides, Baji will stay by his side. No matter what kind of hell awaits us, I’m with you till the end! That’s what he said, isn’t it?
How far would he actually be willing to go for Kazutora’s sake? Would he really help him kill Mikey, and stain his hands once more? Would he run away with him, leave behind his mother, his friends, his home?
That kind of devotion is dangerous in the hands of someone like Kazutora.
He wants to ask. He wants to ask if they can run away together, leave everything behind, and find somewhere their sins can’t follow them. But Kazutora won’t do that to him. He won’t bind him to the murderer that ruined his life. Baji has people he cares about, people that care about him, and Kazutora has already done enough damage.
(He isn’t sure what he would do if Baji said no, if the only person he had left in this world finally gave up on him.)
At this point, the kindest thing Kazutora can do for Baji is stay out of his life. He should stay out of the lives of everyone he used to know. He should run away to somewhere no one will find him, but he’s too much of a coward. He’s scared of being alone, scared of being left behind, replaced, but he can’t risk inflicting even more damage.
Baji will not abandon him willingly, so Kazutora will make the decision for him.
It’s the only thing he can do.