Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Senzai awoke to a world of white, fluorescent light that seared through his eyelids and demanded an end to what felt like a long, turbulent nap. A rather rude awakening immediately followed by the realisation that he was not alone. Shapes loomed overhead; silhouettes, long and warping against the light. They moved uncannily, like liquid, monsters in human skin.

They closed in the instant his eyes fluttered open.

“Turn down the lights.” One said. “He looks disoriented.”

He tried to move, but his limbs felt like they were under water. Disconnected, somehow, from his body for the longest time. The moment he stirred, hands descended.

They reached for him, grappling at his flailing arms and legs. Senzai flinched away from the cold, rubbery touch, the sharp gestures and rough handling. “Please calm down sir!” One of the monsters cried, as though it could restrain him with volume alone. The sound grated on his ears.

Senzai knew danger; had been rather intimately connected to it for what had grown to become a major half of his life. He also knew that hands like these did not just stop at restraining. Senzai had decided, holding his university entrance letter and curled in a fetal position on his bedroom floor one day, that he would never allow himself to be treated like this again.

His body remembered that before he could. And what followed was a shrill yelp of, “ow! He bit me!” Before something was roughly ripped from his mouth.

Loud clamouring, and the hands holding him drew back a little. They hovered around, vulture-like and hesitant. Before—

“Leave the patient alone!” Someone commanded, and the bustling feel silent, “Who even let all of you in here?! Take your equipment and get out. GET OUT.”

There was some low murmuring, but most seemed relieved as they slowly retreated. Footsteps scuffled away, and the shadows backed off. It was only as the room emptied that Senzai saw clearly for the first time.

A sterile white environment, decorated only by a rusty corner TV, some humming machinery and the bed he lay on. Like an emergency ward, but more hastily put together. Some hospital appliances were on the floor, and ceiling tiles had cracked and flaked. It looked as though an earthquake had just ran through place. Standing before him was a man, dressed in a simple medical coat. The man looked like he ran on caffeine and Red Bull alone, with heavy eye bags and a rather annoyed expression as he organised tools and wrestled machinery cables.

He only turned as Senzai drew his first full breath, and methodically produced a pen and clipboard. “Good evening sir, I am head nurse Tanaka, this is Japanese Red Cross Humanitarian centre. May I have your name and identification please?”

The words were spoken way too quickly, and, upon seeing Senzai’s confusion, the man repeated, only this time, too slowly.

“…Senzai.” Senzai eventually replied.

Scribbles, then, “Family name?”

…

The head nurse raised an eyebrow. “Family name?” He asked again.

“Masashige.” Senzai lied between his teeth. But Ta-something or other wouldn’t know that. He hoped some poor family would not be too inconvenienced by his blatant identity fraud, but having Akihito Uchiumi turning up in his hospital ward seemed the poorer alternative.

The nurse narrowed his eyes. Still, his voice remained composed as he pressed on, clipboard tucked under one arm.

“Good to meet you, Senzai. You’re in a safe place now. I understand things must feel… disorienting,” he said, “but I’ll need you to stay calm. You’ve been through quite a lot.”

Senzai barely heard him. Had Akihito finally beat him senseless? It certainly felt like it. His head throbbed violently with each beat of his pulse, and every sound felt like it stretched at the edges, like the world had been torn open and badly stitched back together. Memory was a smear, a distant shape seen through fog. Considering the last thing he remembers is him being dragged out from the Uchiumi household, words of rejection flung at him like knives, this theory proved very likely. He remembers then, the door had slammed, and the world had gone quiet.

And then… nothing.

“If you’re feeling up to it,” the nurse continued, breaking through the fog of thought, “every major news outlet is covering the situation. You’ll find broadcasts on the television just across the room. But for now, we strongly recommend focusing on your recovery. There’s no rush. You're safe here, sir. I promise you that.” Had it been an earthquake, then? It wouldn’t be impossible. Disasters weren’t uncommon, and some struck harder than others. That might explain the scattered chaos in the room, the bruising ache in his skull, and why every news outlet would be covering it. Yes, that would make sense.

Yet, there was something in the nurse’s voice told him the explanation wasn’t so simple.

It took him longer than he liked to fumble for the remote. His fingers moved stiffly, trembled slightly. Even that small motion felt like trying to thread a needle underwater. (His depth perception could clearly use some work) When he finally grasped the device, he glanced down in confusion. His arms looked wrong. Thinner than he remembered. Fragile. When had that happened?

He aimed the remote toward the flickering screen mounted crookedly on the wall. A sigh of static answered him, before the television slowly came to life in a blur of red and blue.

Monster attacks on Tokyo. Damage report: half the city destroyed as youkai flood the streets—

He stared. Youkai weren’t real. That had to be the wrong channel. A movie? Late-night satire? Some grotesque dramatization?

He clicked again.

Search and rescue operations continue. Hopes are dwindling—

‘Miracle’ lone survivor of Tokyo incident suffers only minor injuries—

Again.

Who is the mastermind behind the Tokyo attack? Authorities speculate—

Senzai sat, remote clenched in his hand, his breath slowly draining from him.

It didn’t matter how many channels he flipped through. The story never changed—only the footage, only the angles. But always the same tone: stunned, devastated, surreal. As though the whole nation was struggling to make sense of a waking nightmare.

This wasn’t right. None of it was right.

It felt like a dream, the kind that keeps bleeding into your mind long after you’ve opened your eyes.

A game, perhaps. A dystopian horror game. (Heh, get it?) Except the pain in his head was real. His hollowed-out arms were real. The crumbling city was real.

He was out of bed before he knew it, his knees crumbling under his weight and tugging wires from machinery. A quick wipe around his pockets and the tables revealed his phone was not with him. Somehow, that wasn’t too unexpected. So with the gait of a marionette with its strings tangled, he stumbled toward the door.

He had to talk to Isamu. Even as the thought formed, it disgusted him. Of all things, after what he’d just seen, that his mind turned to his brother? But the feeling wouldn’t let go. It clung to him, irrational and urgent. Like giving Isamu a call would make the world make sense again.

Not because Isamu had ever been especially kind. Not because his brother was the only person in his life who didn’t actively hate him, or maybe he did. It wasn’t like Isamu was of much help when living with Akihito became a living hell. No. He hadn’t lifted a finger.

He had watched, crouched on the floor of the living room, silent.

But still, perhaps Isamu was just that. The only one he could call. Maybe it was the badge. The title. Detective. Maybe that meant answers. Or action. Or just someone who might pick up the phone.

His hands shake as he reaches for the door. Before his fingers could touch the handle, the door flung open from the other side, the edge narrowly missing his face. The nurse stepped in, clipboard in hand, but paused mid-stride when he saw Senzai standing. His gaze flicked from the empty bed to Senzai’s face.

“Sir,” he said evenly, “you are advised to remain… situated. During your recovery.”

“But I feel fine.” Senzai snaps — too fast, too loud, too desperate.

The nurse didn’t flinch. “You’ve only just regained consciousness. We need to monitor your condition.”

“You don’t get it. It’s been ages. I must find him.” What if Isamu was caught in the disaster? What if he was already dead? No. He shouldn’t think like that.

A small part of Senzai whispered that it would not be too big a deal, even if he was.

“You’re the only survivor pulled from that district,” the nurse said quietly. “Everyone’s trying to find someone. We understand. But you were brought in unconscious. We still don’t have a full ID, or your medical history.” He said it like it was supposed to mean something. Like Senzai should know what to do with that information.

Senzai did know what that meant. He had heard something like that before. Truthfully, Senzai had not checked the affected regions of this disaster. But he was quite sure Isamu was alright. As much as he hated to admit, his brother was a persistent man. He is quite sure that, like a fly, or some other sort of tiny pest, that man would be rather hard to kill.

So he should just stop thinking about it.

“Isamu doesn’t live there,” he insisted. “I can call. Or maybe not—he probably won’t answer. But I have to look. He’s out there, and if I stay here doing nothing—“ He stopped. The rest of the sentence folded into itself. He didn’t want to say it, didn’t want to admit the strange coiling in his gut.

What kind of brother would I be, if Isamu had been hurt, and I had done nothing to help him?

Probably the same kind Isamu was, but he didn’t want to be anything like that.

The nurse sighed. It wasn’t theatrical, just tired. Almost sad. And somehow, that was worse.

“You’re free to leave,” he said. “We won’t stop you. But you’ll be discharging Against Medical Advice. That means we won’t be responsible if your condition worsens after you go. I’ll have to note it. It’s standard protocol.”Senzai hated that tone. Calm. Pitying. Like he was a child flailing in panic, too irrational to know what was best for him.

Maybe he was. But what else could he do?

“I’ll sign whatever.” He replied.

That building had been Isamu’s office.

Only after a long, deliberate stare at the blackened signboard did Senzai realize.

Now, it was a ruin. The structure had collapsed inward, deep claw marks raked down its side, and its scorched steel skeleton jutted out from the concrete. He didn’t try to go inside. He couldn’t.

Search and rescue had already cleared the bodies. Isamu hadn’t been among them. But blood still stained the walls, dried like rust, and beneath the heavy scent of burnt concrete, the faint tang of iron still lingered. It must have been unbearable; losing every colleague, every familiar face just like that.

His apartment, and by extension, his brother’s should have stayed relatively untouched, both being on the top floors of their respective buildings and out of the blast radius. He had never been quite grateful he lived away from his workplace before, but he was now.

The building had been silent as he entered, the lift service down and the hallway stretched ahead, lit only by slivers of light leaking mournfully from the cracks beneath doors, flickering like the last breath of something once alive. He reached for his keys. They were in his pocket… somewhere. He’s never left the house without them.

But they weren’t there now. Nothing was ever where it was supposed to be now. A quiet frustration tightened in his throat as he crouched beside the door and reached into the old ceramic pot of his house plant. His spare key was still nestled there, but the plant had grown yellow and dry. He explicitly remembered to water it every time he left. Senzai frowned, then poured the last of his hospital water into the pot.

His house was exactly as he remembered. Small studio apartment, art supplies spilling from every drawer, he never seemed to be able to clear those. The mess was made decidedly worse by what must have been tremors from the disaster, but it would be alright. He was home. He would call Isamu from the small landline on his desk, and they could sort through this mess together. Isamu had recently gotten himself a place of his own, too, though he had only visited once. It has been a while since they bonded.

Maybe things hadn’t been perfect. Maybe they never would be. But he still had a brother. That mattered more than he would like to admit.

He stepped toward the desk, hand reaching toward the phone then froze. His breath caught mid-motion. His throat, already raw from the hospital air and the weight of too many unspoken things, clenched. And yet, somehow, from the depths of it, a small, strangled sound forced its way out.

It was him. His face. That was definitely his face reflected in the darkened computer screen. It was definitely his face, but it was not. The eyes that stared back were hollowed out, sunken into its sockets. The cheekbones jutted out sharply, skin stretched thin and papery over the bone. His complexion was sallow, almost grey, like something left too long in the cold. That wasn't Senzai.

He had never looked like that. Had he? Not like a corpse trying to remember how to blink. He took a step back, as if the reflection itself were lying. As if he could undo it simply by not looking.

But he couldn’t. Reality pressed in from all sides.

There were gaps missing, in both his memory and in something less tangible, something like the foundation of his soul. What had happened between the argument with Akihito and now? He tried to chase it, to follow the thread back through time, but the effort was like peering into a chasm. And the deeper he looked into the abyss, the more the abyss stared back.

And at the centre of that spiral; Isamu.

His presence vaguely disturbing yet comforting. An anchor — and if Senzai was not careful — a noose.

Senzai hadn’t contacted the man he called brother for the longest time. He hadn’t wanted to. So why? Why did everything seem to orbit around him now? He flinched away from the thought. No. He didn’t want to know. He dared not pry too hard, for fear of what he would find there.

It would devour him.

His hands shook as they reached for the phone, his eyes never quite able to remove themselves from his reflection. The the rustic thing barely worked, flaking paint and coated by a thin layer of dust. Senzai had gotten it for cheap at a second hand store. Though distorted, the sounds still came through. Like most things, it was good enough.

And so Senzai called Isamu.

Tsu… tsu…

Tsu… tsu…

The line clicked over to silence.

He replaced the handset gently, as though too much force might shatter the fragile thing. Then his hand stayed there, resting against the cradle. Senzai stared ahead, at nothing in particular.

It was fine.

He never expected Isamu to answer anyway.

Isamu was always missing when he needed him. Why is he always missing?

The signal was bad. The phone lines were probably down. Or busy. Or something.

It was fine.

He and Isamu had played games involving yokai in the past. Senzai had always been the yokai. And Isamu. Isamu had laughed and said yokai didn’t scare him. Said they wouldn’t come near him with the crumpled little ofuda he kept in his wallet, and even if they did, he was a fast runner.

Senzai’s mouth twitched. That ofuda. The one they had gotten from a small shrine of an unknown god in a secluded part of their neighbourhood. Yellowed and folded into four to fit into the coin compartment of Isamu’s wallet.

He wasn’t laughing.

He straightened, abruptly. A turn of the latch and he was back out in the hallway. “Just to be sure.” He muttered, as loudly as possible, to the silence, to the universe, and to fate.

Senzai pressed the door shut behind him, not quite locking it. He would be back soon.

With Isamu. Of course. As it was meant to be.

Chapter Text

Isamu’s apartment was a mess. So much so that Senzai almost could not recognise it as his brother’s. He was never much of a germaphobe, but this. This was too much. The windows were partially opened, and what looked like months of harsh weather and quakes had clearly done a number on the room. The stack of documents on his brother’s desk, messy but never quite disorganised, had been strewn across the floor. A small pin board hung at a drunken angle, knocked askew. Some papers had been ripped right off the pins, and others looked like they’d tried to run too, but failed. Everything had been scribbled on, circled, underlined, marked in bright red pen, like someone had graded the universe and found it lacking.

What was his brother trying to do? Recreate some kind of documentary? Surely this wasn’t how real detectives operated. Senzai almost snorted.

“Brother?” The address was foreign on his tongue. The call echoed through the house, and was finally met with silence.

Senzai frowned. Was he out at the moment? Has Isamu not been home recently? Senzai was not quite sure what Isamu’s career entailed, but aiding in investigations and search and rescue efforts after such a tragic disaster definitely seemed right up his alley.

Yes. His brother should be out helping. He was always the more hardworking of the two, after all.

The worst disaster of the century… Half of Tokyo… the only survivor—

Isamu wasn’t dead. Isamu couldn’t be dead. It just. It was just was not an Isamu thing to do? You know?

If Isamu was too busy to be home, Senzai could help in his own way. Picking one of the papers off the floor revealed a news report, “Strange noises reported off the coast of Aogashima island, local authorities report nothing amiss.” Aogashima island? Senzai had been there recently, partly as an attempt to escape his fath- Akihito. Akihito Uchiumi. It had a nice atmosphere, or so he believed — his memories of the place seemed rather foggy.

(”You’re leaving?”

“Maybe.” Senzai replied, holding nothing more than his phone, wallet, and a small bottle of water, probably contaminated with liquor in some sort of way. “I doubt Akihito would notice.”

”It’s raining, you’ll get a cold.” The rain bore down and soaked through the earth, washing away the last wisps of sentiment. Isamu stood beneath it with him, though his feet never crossed the invisible line marking the Uchiumi household’s boundary. Senzai had wandered far enough to almost begin forgetting, yet he still turned, looking back at his cage one last time.

”It will be alright.” He said, “I don’t know… I think. I think I know where I must go.”

Silence, and Isamu looked at him with eyes that saw but never understood. “Well, take this, at least.” Then, without a word, Isamu stepped forward. Just four paces, but enough to bridge something between them. An umbrella was pressed into Senzai’s hand. Plain white, soft lily decals faded to ghost-petals after years of sun and storm. It was one of Isamu’s own.

Isamu was back in the yard before Senzai could hand the thing back. Swift and sure-footed, as always.

”keep in touch, alright? Invite me over, when you get your own place.”

”I will.” Senzai promised, unsure how much he’d meant it.)

Careful not to trample on what must have been rather classified documents, Senzai makes his way to Isamu’s work table. The few papers that remained had, too, been heavily vandalised. Isamu’s handiwork evident across the entire page, present in furious, slashing handwriting. The kind Isamu used when he was angry. When he was worried. Half the papers had been defaced with ink, circled in red, entire paragraphs crossed out like they’d failed some unspoken test.

Senzai didn’t mean to pry—he just wanted to understand. To feel useful. Maybe find a clue about where Isamu had gone. Instead, his gaze landed on a headline that stopped his breath cold. “The odd circumstances of the disappearance and death of Senzai Uchiumi - a deep dive.”

What? His knees hit the edge of the desk.

Isamu hadn’t been home in almost a month. Not since before the attack. Not since before the world fell apart. That meant he hadn’t vanished in the disaster like Senzai first assumed; he had been gone long before that. Isamu had left of his own accord, to investigate something no one else would touch. Something no one else believed. His brother had gone looking for answers, chasing down the truth behind Senzai’s supposed death. His absence pointed at one devastating reality.

No. That wasn’t right.

Isamu wasn’t dead. Isamu couldn’t. Isamu mustn’t be dead.

It didn’t make sense. Isamu wasn’t the kind of person who died. He was the one who cleaned up the aftermath. The one who investigated the cracks in the world and made sense of them. And besides—Enzukai had sworn—

He froze.

Who was Enzukai?

(“what an ugly creature.” Isamu commented absently, flicking the last bit of overgrowth off the statue. When Akihito was home, it was better to be anywhere else, even dusting off abandoned shrines in the backyard.

And indeed it was, an ugly creature — mouth open, teeth bared,expression halfway between furious and some kind of sadistic joy. Senzai thinks, they aren’t much different.

“A person’s thoughts end up on their face, you know,” Senzai said quietly. “Dad told us that.” He picked up a pebble and flicked it at the horn. It hit with a sharp clink, the sound too loud.

Isamu didn’t answer right away. Never took anybody’s word for it. Not even Senzai’s. Senzai frowned. He studied the statue like it might be dangerous if startled. Then, with care, he peeled a strip of paper from its forehead. “This is an ofuda,” he said, voice almost reverent. “Do you think this could be a shrine?”

“Dedicated to this terrifying thing? Are you blind, the devil, or just retarded?” Senzai remarks. “But if Dad ever prays, I’m sure it’s to something like this.”

“You shouldn’t say that.” Isamu’s hand came down on his head, not hard, but enough to make the message clear. Senzai’s ears rang. His voice was lower when he added, “They say angels look frightening to keep evil away. You can’t always judge by appearances.”

He folded the paper with slowly, as though it were delicate, and slid it into his pocket. Then he bowed to the statue. A short dip of the head, but it carried a kind of respect Senzai didn’t understand.

Senzai lingered, half out of stubbornness, half because he didn’t want to bow to a rock. But in the end, he gave it a stiff little nod, more awkward than respectful.

He would find himself back there, months later, pain and hatred laced in his blood. He would bow again. The vines would be gone, the air colder, the stone face watching without malice or kindness. This time, he would stay low to the ground, forehead pressed against the dirt, and for the first time in his life, pray.)

The beast of jealousy. The crooked statue in his father's garden, watching from behind its overgrown pedestal. His god.

The name had risen to his mind so naturally. How could he ever have forgotten?

…Senzai’s vision cleared a little, then grew blurry again.

Aogashima island. That’s right. Senzai was supposed to be at Aogashima island. Enzukai. The kiirobara cult. The ritual. Senzai was supposed to be dead. But he wasn’t. And there was someone precious to him who was supposed to be alive. Alive and well and still doing ungodly amounts of work late into the night, drinking bad coffee, and giving Senzai that look. Quiet, reserved, and holding so much back.

But he wasn’t.

Senzai desperately wished he were dead now.

His hands were on the phone before he even knew what he was doing. Dialing. Shaking. Holding his breath. The same number. Over and over.

Tsu… Tsu… Cut short.

Again.

That same hope that fluttered in his chest for the faintest moment, small and stupid before being crushed beneath the weight of silence.

Please. Please. Please. Please.

I’ll do anything. Please just let me hear you.

But how could Isamu ever answer? How could he when he was now in Jigoku, suffering for the sins that he committed? How could Senzai ever face him again, when all he had done was fail him? Betray him? Kill him? How could he when all that he has ever done was twist the blade further into the coffin that held their love?

And Enzukai…

The name sends a spike of revulsion from his very core. Enzukai had, with his hands…

That thing he had worshipped. That god he had let in.

The memory came jagged and half-lit, as if watching through broken glass: the river of scarlet streaming down Enzukai’s arms, the dull wet sound of something torn from a body, and Isamu— his brother’s eyes, losing focus. The heart in Enzukai’s hands pulsing once, twice, then still.

Isamu had reached for him. He remembered now. Isamu had held out his hand. (When was the last time they had held hands? Why hadn’t he held his brother closer?) He had wanted to take it. It would have meant everything, reassured Isamu that he was forgiven, that his brother would be with him now. He had hesitated then. For one moment. One second too long.

Isamu Uchiumi was dead before he’d hit the ground. Isamu had been dead for a long time. And as Senzai reached down, his body had been cold. But perhaps, the ice in Senzai’s veins had been colder. And the thing that he’d become would be colder still. Because that’s how it had to be, right? To kill his own brother — the very same brother that had gawked at his paintings and invaded his house with snacks and cheap dessert, took up space in the too-small apartment just to say he missed him — what could Senzai have if not a heart of ice, a soul of frost?

”Senzai, brother, I’m sorry! This is all my fault, I should have stood up to father-“

It wasn’t your fault, brother. Sometimes, right now I think — that Akihito was right about me. That Enzukai was right about me.

(“That’s bullshit, and we both know it.” Isamu placed a hand reassuringly on Senzai’s back. Right where Akihito had hit him hardest. Senzai had flinched away from the flash of pain, and swatted away the worried hand that had dared to reach for him, again. “If you ask me, I think… you should do what makes you happiest.” There was no hurt in Isamu’s eyes, unless you looked too carefully, which Senzai was determined not to.

Isamu stood, dusting himself off. The grass was long and overgrown, left untrimmed for years. The blades tickled his palms, and if he moved too fast, cut paper thin gashes onto his legs. “Don’t listen to him.” Isamu advised. (And where had he been, before? When Akihito had beat him to the brink of death and back?)

”And who are you to talk? You who sucked up to his every whim. You who chose to walk an easier path, because you could not bear the pain of disappointment.” Senzai had never been more angry, “You gave away your future to give that monster bragging rights and a warm bed to crawl back into once he’s burned the last of his bridges. Do not talk to me as though you know better.”

Isamu had turned away and said nothing more; just one more drop to add to the sea of regrets.)

And then the line clicked, static humming faintly, “Hello. You’re calling a device recovered from a disaster zone. May I ask who’s speaking?”

Senzai flinched, the sudden sound nearly slipping the receiver from his hand. His grip tightened until his knuckles blanched. Finally. “Isamu?” His voice cracked, “Brother, are you—are you there?”

A pause. Too long. Then, gently, “I’m sorry.” It wasn’t Isamu. It was a woman. Calm, quiet, but unmistakably tired. Worn-down, perhaps. Numb. It would not be surprising. Calls must have been flooding in from family all across Japan. That was his fault, too.

“The device was recovered with a deceased individual. They’re being kept at the temporary mortuary. If you have information—photos, identifying marks—we’ll try to match the record. If you can recognize them, we can proceed. Cremation’s been delayed, but immediate burial is allowed.”The words tumbled out like a script she’d recited dozens of times. Like she didn’t want to say them anymore. It was too much information, too fast.

“…”

“I’ll come,” he said. Quiet. Final. There was nothing else to say.

That was it. Confirmation. Everything that had just felt like a surreal dream. His brother was dead. The last person that had felt like family to was dead.

Senzai was not crying.

He stood there, surrounded by the echo of a voice that hadn’t belonged to his brother.

He’d never hear it again.

(“You’ll be alright…”)

He should have felt sick. Should have doubled over or wept or screamed. But instead, he drifted. He hung up the phone with hands that did not belong to him, waded through the sea of documents, brushing through them with fingers that couldn’t register touch.

Senzai Uchiumi: no marks and wounds, no sign of poison and other substances. Probable cause of death: murder.

There was nothing about Isamu in his own apartment. Senzai stood and stared for the longest time.

(“I won’t fail you again. I’ll find you this time, just you wait.”)

And realised he hated himself.

He turned away.

The journey wasn’t far, a local high school repurposed as a temporary morgue. But his legs ached after every step. It felt wrong, walking like this. Breathing like this. Living like this.

He stared down at his hands as he moved. They were shaking again. Had he held him, at the very end? He remembered something like that. Vaguely. The pressure of a lifeless wrist in his palm.

He wasn’t the only one at the morgue today. One of two people huddled around, their quiet sobs loud in the heavy air. The school had been emptied, with the stillness of something that was once alive, but would never be again. No heartfelt reunions happened here. That much was clear.

A makeshift barricade covered the place, wrapped in blue tarps and industrial lighting, half of them flickering. He was asked to show ID. He didn’t remember pulling it out. “Uchiumi family?” The attendant asked.

Senzai had long since denounced the Uchiumi name. He wanted nothing to do with Akihito, nothing to do with the rambling old devil that posed as his flesh and blood, a bitter tyrant who’d spat curses louder than blessings and called it love. That name had once felt like a chain.

“Yes.”

Because Uchiumi had been Isamu’s family name too.

So Senzai would carry it again, no matter how heavy it had once been. He would do anything, just to have his little brother closer. Just a little closer.

The ID was handed back to him without fanfare. She had barely looked at it. A visitor tag was clipped to his shirt, and his lead coated legs dragged toward a tent.

“White curtain, end of the row,” the attendant said. Their tone was practiced, but not unkind. “When you’re ready.”

When you’re ready. As if he could ever be.

The man in the bed was small. Too small. Too still. Too quiet. Had Isamu always seemed this way? Someone had combed his hair back. Someone had tried to restore dignity to what was left. Even now. Even like this.

It’s not fair.

“I’m sorry.” He would say, to no one. forehead pressed against Isamu’s side, heart beating a thousand apologies into still, cooling scent of anti sceptic. Because in the end, there was no one else left to forgive him.

(“Between us, there is no need for such regrets. Never again.”)

When the body came, it was wrapped in white. Neat, quiet, zipped shut like something no longer meant to be opened. It was dropped off small burial plot just beyond the city. There weren’t many people around. A few quiet workers to join in a fast, unceremonious burial.

Amidst the hollow scrape of dirt, there would be only silence. Senzai didn’t speak. He couldn’t. Isamu had always been the one who filled silence. His brother had loved words, always talked too much about sports, homework, and games in quiet hallways. It had been like he was filling the silence, always rushing to get his words out before Akihito made it back. Senzai supposed some words were just harder to say than others.

The silence now felt like some sort of cruel joke. It pressed in like a vise, squeezing around Senzai’s throat, like someone had carved his lungs out. There were things he needed to say. Confessions that burned behind his ribs, that clawed up his throat. But not here. Not now. He pressed his hand once against the nameplate they’d nailed into the stake and left.

He doesn’t quite remember where he had gone after. The location never mattered. What mattered was that when he returned into being, his mind was made.

It must have been a few days, for the ground had cooled and grass somewhat regrown over the surface. The tombstone already looked duller. He had brought a single lily and a few of his old paintings. Maybe it would restore some colour to the place. To the life that had once shone so brilliantly. What else could he do?

So Senzai knelt. Whether it was his legs giving way or a quiet instinct to beg; for forgiveness, for the afterlife to have mercy on his brother, for anything at all. He didn’t know. He only knew that he wanted to stay there, folded beneath the weight of everything unsaid. For hours. Days. A lifetime, if he could. Before a grave, blank as the silence that followed Isamu's final breath.

No flowers marked the spot. No prayers, no crowds or ceremonies. None to the saviour of a city, the last light of the Uchiumi name, the best brother Senzai could have never asked for.

He had slipped beneath the radar, the disaster too severe to keep many identification records. Too many people had died. In a way, he had been lucky. He could change his identity, restart this… life.

But the guilt that coiled like heavy snakes in his belly could not be removed. His brother’s, and all the lives he had taken could not be restarted.

[You were always stronger than me… Isamu, even when I tried to drag you down.]

[I took everything away from the world. And still, you chose to spare me.]

[I didn’t deserve your forgiveness… yet you gave it with your final breath.]

[They’ll sing songs of your courage, Isamu. But no one will remember the coward you saved.]

[It turns out that Enzukai is no better than our father... What a way for this god forsaken memory to repeat itself.]

[If I could trade places with you... I would, a thousand times over.]

[The world wants justice... and I won't run. I'll spend the rest of my life behind bars, paying for what I've done.]

[Rest now, little brother. I'll carry this shame until the day I join you.]