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The streets were much emptier than usual at this time of the night. Hanma put his cold hands in his jacket pockets and strolled more or less unaware of his surrounding along the side walk, the cigarette between his lips slowly burning down. The little snow of the last few weeks had already disappeared again. Not that the skinny teenager was particularly interested or bothered by the weird weather. His tired eyes glanced briefly across the street and finally spotted the convenience store he was looking for.
The fridge at home was gapingly empty. As so often. Hanma simply didn't have the energy to deal with such nuisances and waste his time shopping. He entered the store somewhat grumpily and looked around briefly. A better word would have been superficially. His choice was already made before he entered the small shop: Ramen would have to suffice for today again. The tall teenager took also a beer and a lychee lemonade from the refrigerated shelf. The cashier was already waiting at the counter, raising his eyebrows somewhat septically. "Again?", he muttered, shaking his head slightly.
Hanma frown. Why again? The Reaper began to wonder how long he had been buying instant noodles every day. Maybe three days? Or had it been two weeks already? Hanma was unsure. He finally shrugged his shoulders slightly and replied curtly: "I don't have huge demands for my dinner." The cashier put the purchase in the shopping bag and pushed it across the counter to his stubborn customer without saying a word. The delinquent took it with a small smile and was about to leave when the man called after him: "Oh, before you go. Where has your little friend with the serious face gone? I didn't see him in a while now."
The skinny teenager stopped briefly, then rubbed his neck for a few seconds. He turned his head to the cashier and smiled awkwardly, replying quietly: "At a better place now." With that, he left the convenience store without looking back. In his head, the Reaper decided to change the store for his next purchase to avoid another talk and to look for suitable alternatives as quickly as possible. "What a stupid asshole," the delinquent muttered as he fished another cigarette out of the crumpled pack.
He knew very well that the young man certainly meant no harm with the questions. It was simply an inappropriate moment. Hanma sighed quietly and lit the coffin nail, putting his hands back in his jacket pockets as fast as possible. The Reaper made his way back to his apartment, his appearance from a distance actually reminding him of a thoughtless zombie. Only when the skinny teenager suddenly noticed the unpleasant taste of the filter did he quickly spit the remains on the floor and stomped on the cigarette butt. What a load of shit. Hanma leisurely climbed the numerous stairs of the building and after a short walk reached his apartment door.
The bag in his hand rustled slightly in the wind. Where exactly was the delinquent with the conspicuous tattoos going after all this tragedy? He opened the lock and entered his apartment. As usual, Hanma was greeted by an oppressive silence and emptiness in the otherwise chaotic entrance area. How many times had they argued at the front door because of his stupid tendency to create nothing but chaos around him? The Reaper finally entered and put the bag on the wooden floor, listening into the dark corridor.
Nothing.
He slipped out of his poorly laced boots and took the shopping with him into the kitchen. Next to the sink by the kitchen window was the half-filled cup with the Garo warrior from the one Zelda game that his best friend loved so much. Hanma had never really been interested in the series and that would probably not change now. The skinny teenager did not dare to look into the cup itself. There was certainly not much left of the former cocoa other than a mouldy liquid that would be inedible at best and require a stay in hospital at worst.
The shopping was packed away pretty quickly. He only took the beer and the lemonade with him. When the teenager stood in the doorway to his living room, all life had suddenly disappeared from his soul again. 13 unopened bottles of Lychee lemonade were already piling up on the coffee table next to 13 empty beer cans. Hanma sat down on the sofa without saying a word, looking at the tragedy on the small table in front of him for a while. Finally, he put another bottle next to the others and opened his can with practised routine. It tasted the same as always and at the same time so different.
The usual series were on TV. Boring, predictable and difficult to bear without the sarcastic comments next to him. How could people pass the time with that? The delinquent pulled out his flip phone and looked at the display with a certain foreboding. No new messages, no new calls. He put it back in his trouser pocket and laid the back of his head on the back of the sofa. The yellowed ceiling above him seemed just as apathetic as he was. Could it still remember all the special moments with the two teenagers underneath it? After a while, the Reaper turned the TV off again with a small groan.
Silence.
How much he hated this fucking silence. "You would have complained in a very calm way that I can't sit still for even a second and that I'm getting on your nerves with my fidgeting, right?" Hanma, of course, got no answer to his question. A small smile spread across his thin lips. There was a pretty good chance that he wouldn't have received an answer even if his friend was still sitting there. And it would have been fine. Just quietly turning the pages of the book or the occasional sip of lemonade would have calmed him down. The skinny teenager laughed briefly, then was captured by the silence again.
Another cigarette. His nicotine consumption had more than doubled since the accident. It calms his troubled head and the unwanted thoughts that kept coming to him. They seemed to be lurking on every street corner, waiting for the right moment to attack him emotionally. The coffin nails were a last wall against this overwhelming enemy. When the last drop of beer had been drunk, the Reaper slowly crushed the can and threw it to the others on the coffee table, disregarding it. A graveyard of cigarette butts, stinking aluminium corpses and unopened bottles of lychee lemonade. Cleaning up was out of the question for the gaunt teenager in his condition.
"Apparently you didn't become an Onryō after all, hmm? Or was the ridiculous tiny funeral really enough to turn you into a Goryō? Embarrassing, if you ask me." Both friends had agreed that they would continue to haunt the world after their deaths and cause as much suffering as possible among the unworthy living. All that remained of this conviction was the laughter of the gaunt delinquent on the sofa. He missed their profound conversations.
While the cigarette slowly burned down between his fingers, Hanma looked at his own distorted reflection on the TV opposite him. What was wrong with him? He had only spent a few months with the Pierrot and yet he felt completely overwhelmed to spend his day without him. Weren't random street fights his fulfilment before? Why didn't he even have the desire to punch some idiots in the face outside any more? Even the thought of beating Draken up to a pulp didn't motivate him to get up and leave the apartment for anything else than shopping.
Everything was simply empty. Hanma got up with a sigh and trudged out of the living room. Too many memories, too much silence. He went into his bathroom - probably the best-tidy room in his entire apartment. His friend's black towel was still hanging over the radiator, drying there for eternity until it would fall to the floor as if by magic. Until then, the gaunt teenager would not dare to touch the piece of cloth. The sink showed how different the two delinquents were.
On one side there was chaos, on the other an almost meticulous order. For a moment it seemed as if the toothbrush in the cup was shimmering slightly in the ceiling light. A fallacy. The brushes had not been wet for 14 days and were completely dry. Hanma took off his clothes and got into the shower with a queasy feeling. The two bottles of shampoo and shower gel still stood in the corner. The smell of both was intense, but quickly disappeared. Cheap products that probably only made teenagers happy and drove parents crazy. The delinquent opened the shower gel and smelled it a few times with his eyes closed. Goosebumps.
He put the bottle back to the shampoo and finally turned on the water. The warm liquid didn't wash away the memories, but it did take away the heavy thoughts and feelings of guilt for a while. The gaunt teenager had attended the funeral from a safe distance. He wouldn't have been allowed to get any closer. His best friend's family had obvious reservations about him and probably blamed him for the death of their only son. No one wanted to believe that the perfect student had not only played a major role in the whole disaster, but had also directed it to a certain extent.
Why should a brilliant genius with a bright future deal with dim-witted idiots who would all end up in cheap temporary jobs or even in prison? Hanma let the water run down his tense neck. It was absurd and that was exactly why it was so brilliant. The Pierrot had the opportunity to skilfully pull himself out of the fray and return to his usual role as a genius at any time. No one would even suspect that he would go to bed every night with the guilt of having killed at least three people - whether passively or with his own hands.
But these thoughts no longer mattered. Kisaki was dead. Hanma still didn't want to face the finality of this statement. He just couldn't yet. The gaunt teenager turned off the water and left the shower, drying himself half-heartedly. The wet tracks in the corridor revealed that he had gone to his bedroom. Here the time had stood still as well. On the untidy desk was still the school book that his best friend had wanted to read by the end of the week. The notes were neatly written on the paper next to it.
On the bedside table lay the broken glasses that Hanma had taken from the scene of the accident as a last memory of the Pierrot. The cracked glass shimmered slightly in the moonlight. The delinquent remembered the younger boy's tired face with a small smile before they went to sleep together like every night. The fact that they shared a bed was a well-kept secret. Hanma lay down leisurely on the soft mattress, sliding naturally towards the window. His side. The other half remained empty that night too.
The Reaper gritted his teeth. He was overwhelmed by a huge wave of emotions that had followed him every step of the day. When it finally broke over him, the pent-up grief suddenly unfolded. Hanma gripped the white bedsheet tightly, his fingers almost convulsively clawing at the empty space next to him. His violet eyes half closed and the first tears gathered in the corners of his eyes. The salty liquid glittered slightly in the soft moonlight that only illuminated his side of the bed in a warm blue. Kisaki's side lay hidden in the darkness. The Reaper cast a fleeting glance at the bedside table again and felt his heart begin to ache even more. The cracks on the glass of his glasses were clearly visible even in the shadows.
The gaunt teenager slowly pulled his legs up and whispered into the oppressive silence of his bedroom: "Good night, Tetta." With these words, his mental resistance broke entirely. Hanma put his free hand to his forehead, pressed his fingers into his wild hair and began to cry uncontrollably. While the Reaper of Kabukicho lay curled up on his bed, the lonely stars in the sky sparkled darker than usual.