Chapter Text
The hum of the Okinawan night was faint through Reki's bedroom window, the cicadas' song barely penetrating the thick fog in his mind. His room was a mess-skateboard parts strewn across the floor, tools scattered like forgotten promises, and half-finished designs crumpled in the corner. The yellow hoodie he wore like armor lay discarded on his desk chair, leaving him in a faded long-sleeved black shirt that hung loosely on his frame. His red hair was unkempt, his signature blue headband pushed back, exposing amber eyes dulled by exhaustion and something darker.
Reki sat cross-legged on his bed, his knees drawn up, his hands unsteady as they gripped his phone case. The case was scuffed, worn from constant handling, but it held a secret he'd never share. With a quiet snap, he pried it open, revealing the small, razor-sharp blade tucked inside. It glinted faintly in the dim light filtering through the cracked blinds, a cruel beacon in the storm of his thoughts.
His breath hitched, a familiar tightness squeezing his chest. The voices in his head were loud tonight-louder than the laughter he faked at "S," louder than the cheers of the crowd watching Langa skate circles around everyone else. You're not good enough, they whispered. You'll never be like him. You're just Reki, the nobody who can't keep up. He tried to shake them off, to focus on the memory of carving down a hill with Langa, the wind in his hair, the thrill of the board beneath his feet. But the memories felt hollow, overshadowed by the gnawing certainty that he was falling behind, that he was nothing next to his best friend's brilliance.
Reki's fingers tightened around the blade, his knuckles whitening. He didn’t want to do this. He never wanted to do this. But the pain was something he could control, something that could silence the chaos, even if just for a moment. He started with his left forearm, rolling up his sleeve to reveal skin already scarred from nights like this. The blade was cold, biting into his tan skin as he dragged it slowly, deliberately. A thin line of red bloomed, then another, each cut deeper than the last. His wrist followed, the sensitive skin yielding easily, blood beading up and dripping onto the sheets. He bit his lip, stifling a gasp, his eyes fixed on the crimson trails as if they could wash away his shame.
His right thigh was next. He shoved his baggy pants down, exposing the expanse of skin that bore the worst of his pain. The scars here were denser, a chaotic map of his lowest moments. This was where he could let the blade sink deeper, where the pain could match the weight of his self-loathing. He pressed hard, the cuts long and jagged, blood pooling faster than on his arm. His breath came in short, ragged bursts, his vision blurring as the pain burned through him, sharp and grounding. The thigh was his sanctuary of suffering, each mark a testament to every time he felt like he’d failed—failed to keep up with Langa, failed to prove himself at “S,” failed to be someone worth caring about.
Finally, his stomach. He lifted his shirt, the soft skin there less scarred but still marked by past nights. The blade trembled in his hand now, his strength fading as the adrenaline ebbed. He made shallow cuts, quick and precise, the pain sharp but fleeting compared to the thigh. It was enough to keep him tethered, to pull him back from the edge of the spiraling thoughts that told him he was nothing.
Reki dropped the blade onto the bed, his hands shaking violently. Blood stained his fingers, his pants, the sheets, a vivid reminder of what he’d done. He stared at the mess, his chest heaving, his mind a tangled knot of guilt and relief. The room was silent except for his uneven breathing, the world outside oblivious to the war raging inside him. He didn’t know how long he sat there, lost in the haze of pain and numbness, his thoughts a loop of self-hatred and fleeting calm.
Langa's face flashed in his mind—those blue eyes, that quiet smile, the way he looked at Reki like he was more than just a screw-up. Reki’s heart twisted, a pang of guilt cutting deeper than the blade. Langa didn’t know about this, couldn’t know. He’d never understand why Reki did this, why he needed it. Langa, who skated like he was born for it, who made everything look effortless, would never get what it was like to feel so small, so useless. Reki couldn’t bear the thought of those eyes looking at him with pity, or worse, disappointment.
He reached for the blade again, tucking it back into his phone case with unsteady fingers. He pulled his sleeve down, wincing as the fabric dragged against the fresh cuts, and tugged his pants back up, hiding the evidence. The blood on the sheets would be harder to explain, but he’d deal with that later—maybe claim he spilled paint or got a nosebleed. He was good at lying, good at hiding. He had to be.
Reki leaned back against the wall, his head tilted back, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. The pain throbbed in his arm, his thigh, his stomach, a dull reminder that he was still here, still breathing, even if he didn’t know why. The thoughts were quieter now, subdued by the physical ache, but he knew they’d be back. They always came back.
For now, he’d clean up, put on his hoodie, and paste on a smile. Tomorrow, he’d skate with Langa, laugh with Miya, act like everything was fine. Because that’s what Reki did—he kept going, kept pretending, kept hiding the cracks beneath the surface. And no one, not even Langa, would ever know how deep they ran.
The Okinawan sun blazed down on the skatepark, the heat shimmering off the concrete ramps like a mirage. It was brutal, the kind of day where the air clung to your skin and sweat soaked through your clothes in minutes. Most of the skaters at the park had stripped down to tank tops or t-shirts, their boards clattering against the pavement as they carved through the curves. But Reki Kyan was a walking anomaly, bundled up in layers that defied the weather—a long-sleeved black undershirt, his yellow hoodie tied tightly around his waist, and baggy cargo pants that hid everything below. His red hair was plastered to his forehead beneath his Egyptian blue headband, sweat beading on his tan skin, but he didn’t shed a single layer.
Langa watched him from the edge of the half-pipe, his blue eyes narrowed against the glare. Reki was grinding along a rail, his movements sharp but off, each landing a little too stiff, each push of his board a little too careful. Langa’s grip tightened on his own skateboard, his stomach twisting with a feeling he couldn’t name. Something was wrong with Reki—had been wrong for a while—but what was he supposed to say? Reki was all smiles and loud laughs, tossing out jokes about Miya’s latest trick fails or teasing Joe about his “old man” vibes. But Langa saw the cracks: the way Reki flinched when someone brushed against his arm, the way he tugged his sleeves down every few minutes, the way his grin never quite reached his amber eyes.
Reki landed a kickflip, but his board wobbled, and he stumbled, hissing through his teeth as his weight shifted onto his right leg. The sound was faint, swallowed by the chatter of the park, but Langa caught it. He caught everything when it came to Reki—the way his shoulders tensed when someone got too close, the way he’d wince when he thought no one was looking, the way he’d pull his hoodie tighter around himself like it was armor. Langa’s chest ached with the need to say something, to ask what was wrong, but the words stuck in his throat. What if Reki laughed it off? What if he got angry? What if Langa was just imagining things, projecting his own worries onto his best friend?
"Dude, you good?” Miya’s voice cut through Langa’s thoughts, the kid skating up beside him with a raised eyebrow. “You’re staring at Slime like he’s about to explode.”
Langa blinked, his face heating up. “I’m not staring,” he mumbled, but his eyes drifted back to Reki, who was now crouched by his board, adjusting a wheel with a focus that looked more like avoidance. His sleeve had ridden up slightly, revealing a glimpse of red, irritated skin before he yanked it down again, his movements quick and practiced.
Miya followed Langa’s gaze, his catlike eyes narrowing. “He’s acting weird,” he said bluntly, crossing his arms. “Weirder than usual, I mean. You notice how he’s dressed like it’s winter? In this heat?”
Langa didn’t answer, his jaw tightening. He’d noticed. Of course he’d noticed. Reki was sweating buckets, his face flushed redder than his hair, but he hadn’t taken off his hoodie all day. Even when Joe had tossed him a water bottle and it splashed across his arm, Reki had flinched like he’d been burned, muttering something about being clumsy before retreating to the shade. Langa had watched him rub his forearm through the sleeve, his expression tight with pain, and it had taken everything in Langa not to grab him then and there, to demand answers.
But what was he supposed to say? “Hey, Reki, why do you look like every move hurts?” “Why are you hiding under all those clothes?” “Why do you keep pulling away from me?” The questions burned in Langa’s mind, but they felt invasive, like he’d be crossing a line he didn’t understand. Reki was his best friend, the one who’d brought skating into his life, who’d filled the empty spaces left by loss with laughter and warmth. Langa couldn’t risk pushing him away, not when he already felt like Reki was slipping through his fingers.
Reki stood up, wincing as he put weight on his right leg again. He grabbed his board and jogged over to Langa and Miya, his grin wide but brittle. “Yo, you guys just gonna stand there all day? Come on, Langa, show us that new trick you were working on!” His voice was bright, too bright, like he was trying to outshine the sun itself.
Langa hesitated, his eyes flicking to Reki’s sleeve, where a faint stain—sweat, or something else?—darkened the fabric. “You sure you’re up for this?” he asked, keeping his tone neutral. “You look… hot.”
Reki laughed, the sound sharp and forced. “Nah, I’m good, man! Just vibing, you know?” He tugged his headband down, hiding his eyes for a moment, and Langa’s heart sank. Reki was lying. He always lied when he didn’t want to talk about something, and Langa hated how good he was at it.
Miya snorted, kicking his board up into his hand. “Whatever, Slime. Don’t pass out on us.” He skated off, leaving Langa and Reki alone in the shade of a palm tree.
Langa opened his mouth, then closed it again. The words were there—Are you okay? What’s going on? Why do you keep flinching?—but they felt too big, too heavy. Instead, he reached out, intending to clap Reki on the shoulder like he always did, but Reki stepped back, his movement quick and instinctive. Pain flashed across his face, gone in an instant, replaced by that fake grin.
"Whoa , dude, you trying to knock me over?” Reki joked, but his voice was tight, and he rubbed his arm again, the motion almost compulsive.
Langa's hand fell to his side, his fingers curling into a fist. “Sorry,” he said quietly, his eyes searching Reki’s face for something—anything—that would tell him what was wrong. But Reki just looked away, his grin faltering for a split second before he turned back to the park.
"Come on, let’s skate,” Reki said, already moving toward the ramps. His steps were careful, deliberate, like every movement was a calculation to avoid pain. Langa watched him go, his chest tight with a mix of worry and something deeper, something he hadn’t dared name even to himself. He loved Reki—loved him in a way that went beyond friendship, in a way that made every flinch, every forced smile, feel like a knife to his heart. But he didn’t know how to reach him, didn’t know how to break through the walls Reki had built.
As Reki dropped into the half-pipe, his board scraping against the concrete, Langa stayed where he was, rooted to the spot. He wanted to run after him, to pull him aside, to make him talk. But what was he supposed to say? How could he help when Reki wouldn’t let him in? All he could do was watch, helpless, as his best friend skated through the pain, hiding his scars beneath layers of cloth and lies, in the unbearable heat of an Okinawan afternoon.
The clock on Reki’s nightstand glowed 1:47 AM, its soft green light cutting through the darkness of his room. The air was still heavy with the day’s heat, the Okinawan night offering little relief. Reki lay sprawled on his bed, his yellow hoodie tossed aside, his long-sleeved black shirt clinging to his sweat-damp skin. His cargo pants were bunched around his knees, the fabric too painful against the fresh cuts on his right thigh. The bandages he’d hastily applied earlier were already peeling, stained with faint red spots where the wounds wept. His left forearm throbbed under its own layer of gauze, hidden beneath his sleeve, and his stomach ached dully, a reminder of the shallow marks he’d added the night before.
He stared at the ceiling, his red hair splayed across the pillow, the Egyptian blue headband discarded on the floor. The room was quiet except for the faint hum of a fan in the corner, doing little to ease the oppressive warmth. His phone sat on his chest, the case scuffed and worn, its secret blade tucked safely inside. Reki’s amber eyes were heavy, exhaustion pulling at him, but sleep wouldn’t come. The thoughts were too loud—You’re not good enough. You’re dragging Langa down. You’re nothing. They looped endlessly, each one a weight pressing him deeper into the mattress.
His phone buzzed, the vibration jolting him. He fumbled to grab it, wincing as the movement tugged at the cuts on his arm. The screen lit up with a text from Langa, the name alone enough to make Reki’s heart stutter.
Langa: You awake?
Reki stared at the message, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. Langa was probably halfway across town, lying in his own bed, his blue hair a mess, his calm voice echoing in Reki’s mind. He could picture him, phone in hand, those piercing blue eyes fixed on the screen, waiting. Reki’s chest tightened. He wanted to ignore it, to let the silence swallow the conversation before it could start, but his fingers moved on their own.
Reki: Ya, wassup?
He hit send before he could overthink it, his heart pounding. Why was Langa texting him this late? Was something wrong? Or was this just Langa being Langa, oblivious to normal sleep schedules? Reki’s mind spiraled, imagining a hundred scenarios—Langa calling him out for acting weird at the skatepark, Langa saying he was done with him, Langa figuring out the truth Reki fought so hard to hide.
Another buzz. Reki's hands shook as he opened the message.
Langa: Couldn't sleep. Thinking about today. You seemed off.
Reki's breath caught, his stomach twisting. He could feel the bandages sticking to his skin, the dull ache of his wounds pulsing in time with his heartbeat. Langa had noticed. Of course he had. Langa always noticed, even when Reki tried to bury his pain under layers of clothes and fake smiles. He’d seen it in the way Langa’s eyes lingered at the skatepark, the way he hesitated before reaching out, the way he stayed quiet when Reki flinched. But Langa didn’t know—not really. And Reki would keep it that way.
Reki: Nah, just hot as hell out there, ya know? Prolly dehydrated or sumthin. I'm good.
The lie felt bitter, even typed out. He set the phone down, rubbing his face with his hands, careful to avoid the bandages. His thigh burned as he shifted, the cuts deeper there, the pain sharper. He deserved it, he told himself. For being weak, for being a burden, for not being enough to stand beside Langa at “S.” The thought of Langa—perfect, talented Langa, who skated like he was born for it—made Reki’s chest ache with something he couldn’t name. Admiration? Envy? Something more?
His phone buzzed again, insistent. Reki grabbed it, his fingers clumsy.
Langa: You sure? You were flinching a lot. Like you were hurt.
Reki's heart stopped. His vision blurred, not from tears but from the sheer panic that Langa was so close to the truth. He could almost hear Langa’s voice, soft and steady, laced with that quiet concern that made Reki want to scream. He wanted to tell him everything—to spill the ugly truth about the blade in his phone case, the scars under his sleeves, the thoughts that clawed at him every night. But he couldn’t. Langa would look at him differently, would see him as broken, pathetic. Reki couldn’t lose him. Not Langa, the one person who made him feel like he could be more than nothing.
Reki: Dude, I'm fine. Just clumsy, banged my leg on my board. No biggie.
He hit send, his hands trembling so badly he nearly dropped the phone. He waited, staring at the screen, his breath shallow. The seconds stretched into eternity, each one heavier than the last. When the next message came, it was like a punch to the gut.
Langa: You'd tell me if something was wrong, right?
Reki's throat closed up. He wanted to laugh, to cry, to throw his phone across the room. Tell Langa? Tell him what? That he was falling apart? That every time he saw Langa soar on his board, it felt like a reminder of how far behind Reki was? That the only way he could quiet the noise in his head was to cut himself open? Langa wouldn’t understand. He’d try, because he was Langa, but he’d never get it. And Reki couldn’t bear to see disappointment in those blue eyes.
Reki: Yeah, man. 'Course I would. Now stop worrying and go to sleep.
He sent the message and turned off the screen, plunging the room back into darkness. His hands were still shaking, his heart racing like he’d just sprinted down a hill. He pulled his knees to his chest, ignoring the sharp sting in his thigh, and buried his face in his arms. The bandages rubbed against his skin, a constant reminder of what he’d done, what he was hiding. Langa’s texts burned in his mind, each one a lifeline he couldn’t grab. He wanted to believe Langa cared, wanted to believe he could be honest, but the fear was stronger. The fear of being seen, of being known, of being less than what Langa deserved.
Reki's phone buzzed once more, but he didn’t look at it. He couldn’t. Instead, he curled tighter into himself, the heat of the night pressing down on him, his wounds throbbing beneath their layers of gauze and lies. Somewhere out there, Langa was waiting for an answer, but Reki had none to give. Not tonight. Maybe not ever.