Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There are termites living in his walls.

There are not a concerning amount of them for Toya to break silence at the dining table, though. They reveal themselves in the corner of the living room beside the looming shelf filled top to bottom with awards, recognitions, and the shiny life of his father, all reflected in those polished, golden trophies. Yet such meticulous pieces of paper stuffed behind glass framing and tiny statues fail to distract him from the growing invaders in that particular space of his house; they emerge from perhaps the tiniest hole one could think of, and still they pose a threat, consuming the nearby drywall for expansion. He shivers as he eats the rest of his dinner, subtly peeking towards his parents.

His mother is facing the opposite way, on the far end of the table, where she is unable to even take their presence into account should Toya remain mute. His father, immobile, sits on the couch with a book in hand, and would also not acknowledge the threat if his son would not make him aware.

Although he understands he should say something now rather than later—that he should tell them before they become too ingrained in the roots of their home, drunk on a greedy concoction that keeps them hungry and in desire—nothing compels him terribly to speak. It is not worth feeling the strange needles that prick into his skin every time his father utters a word, passive or hostile. It is not worth hearing the stoic, neutral words of his mother that always seem to emerge from his father’s shadow. Coming to this conclusion, all he is able to do is refuse to finish his plate, stand from the table, and walk to the kitchen to wash the dish clean.

Once the plate shallowly reflects himself, he places it onto the drying rack laying patiently by the sink and, without another thought, makes way for the door.

Where are you going this late? He expects to hear the voice of his father, preparing himself to flinch once it severs the hours-long silence which marinates the room in suspense.

Instead, once he finishes putting on his shoes, he is met with nothing. He looks back. His father remains enamored by the pages, with his mother still eating the remainder of her meal.

Those needles find themselves tickling his skin even without words. But they do not puncture the skin, so he, too, says nothing, striding out the door that closes as quietly as the one that opened it.

The walk from his home to the park is not a long one, considering his current empty mind. All thoughts, the moment they are conceived, remain in stasis, unable to develop further as he keeps his focus on the materialistic world around him. The concrete street that slowly gets rougher, the people that slowly decrease in number around him, the fence and its artificial green hue being replaced with a natural, quite unsanitary rust: his mind remains outside until it has something absolute to focus on—someone that lies in the middle of the park, rocking aimlessly on the swing set obviously not catered to their age.

Perhaps years ago the seat would fit them perfectly rather than having to accommodate around a much larger waist. The criteria would never fit someone like Toya—he was born unable to even imagine himself in such enjoyment.

The person on the swing, after noticing his presence, skids to a stop, shooting up sand into the air.

“Sorry I’m late, Akito,” Toya embarrassingly greets. Akito huffs out a breath—something like a half-laugh half-sigh—and takes a microphone from his jacket’s pocket, tossing it his way.

 “Don’t worry about it, man,” Akito replies as Toya catches the object. “I just got here a while ago.”

Silence returns, but this one is more docile than the one that frequently occupies his home. It remains throughout Akito’s stretching routine, whereas Toya cannot manage to move a muscle. He only does so when Akito rolls his shoulders—Toya knows this to be the finisher from the countless times he’s watched these stretches—and straightens his back.

“You ready?” He asks.

“Yes,” Toya says as he walks closer to Akito’s side. The word slides off his tongue naturally, yet leaves a foreign, cold aftertaste.

That, too, remains throughout the rest of their practice. Toya is silent; he lets the sensation pass through, just as he always does, until he exits through those overgrown gates and is left to stare at the stars alone. Empty-handed.

But this time, opposing his initial walk here, a song rings in his head, prominent and invasive. The seeds of all thoughts that were given no opportunity to bloom die and wither away at the tune, sung in that sweet, early autumn-like voice. Then another song follows, and another, and another—until there’s piles of music and lyrics all of which neither of them have ever sang together, yet they pridefully make themselves known.

It gets him home slower than anything else. Though that fact is one Toya can be grateful for—if only he could remain inside that fence forever.

Forever is an anomaly. But at least tomorrow isn’t, and the thought is enough for him to have the courage to open the front door of his home, preparing himself for another lecture from his father he’ll have to yet again walk away from.

The house is empty, though. His father is no longer on the couch and his mother has far finished her dinner by now. Once he takes off his shoes and makes way for the stairs, however, he notices the band of termites still expanding the hole in the corner of the wall. He ends up scoffing as he abruptly climbs the stairwell (for he was not truly alone) and closes his bedroom door behind him.

He decides to stay up and read tonight. He knows it will make him exhausted once practice rolls around the next day—but his impatience moves him to take out a book that he has already read and flip to a random page, starting in the middle of some random chapter.

Yet even as he tries to read the strange assortment of words on the page, his mind continues to be infected by the infestation their home is currently harboring. The infection only grows larger and larger the more he attempts to conceal the thought—in which he eventually raises the white flag, shutting his book to tear out a sticky note and pen from his desk. He returns downstairs; the urge to inform his parents takes pilot, but he still cannot find the courage to speak to them face-to-face. He wanders to the kitchen counter and idles with the pen in his hands, wondering what exactly to write. Eventually, he ends up writing a simple string of words, attaching the note to the countertop, and returning to his book upstairs.

He thinks momentarily about dealing with the issue alone. Then he reminds himself that he’s utterly terrified of doing anything more than staring at the hoard of them, so he puts the idea to rest just as he does himself once he’s grown too tired of the book in his hands.

It probably won’t be much of an issue, anyways.

Chapter Text

They are now eating into the polished wooden shelf, reaching up to the top of the corner they reside in.

His fingers sweat as he tries to distract himself with the dinner he is eating, but each attempt ends in failure. They stretch along that corner and have created another hole at the top like they have the bottom, some stringing out to gnaw at the shelf of empty accomplishments. Toya questions whether or not his parents—who are in the same position as they were yesterday night, when those abominable creatures first appeared—have already called for assistance on the matter, but even that idea cannot reassure him.

The idea of an exterminator doesn’t rest the hairs on his skin, for even if one were to solve their issue, it’d cost too much to repair the gaps they have left behind. And, even when those gaps have closed, the drywall wouldn’t be the same, no matter how accurately the fresh paint matches the current color.

It probably won’t be much of an issue, anyway. He told himself so before he’d gone to bed, so perhaps he ought to live up to it.

With an unconscious click of his tongue, he stands and walks over to the kitchen to wash his plate, once again leaving the dish half filled with food.

As he returns the plate to the drying rack, he notices the yellow slip of paper on the counter. He glances towards his parents, but as it was yesterday, nothing happens. His father continues to flip the pages of the same book and his mother continues to dig into her plate, all without mind.

He looks back at the note he left, unbothered and unspoken of, and snatches it, grabbing a spare pen from the very edge of the counter and scribbling out the words until he accidentally rips a tiny hole in the center. He flips the paper over to write yet another message to leave for his parents, hoping that this time his efforts would not be in vain. He lingers around the space filled with that same crushing silence, staring at the words he so impatiently wrote, then submits to the overbearing pressure, keeping the pen by his note and making his way to the door once again for another late-night practice. This time, though, as he’s putting on his shoes and preparing to leave with nothing but his cellphone, a gentle clap of paper interrupts the stillness.

Foolishly, he turns around, meeting the stern eyes of his father that cause needles to start their puncturing. “Be home in a timely manner,” is all he says, dully yet firmly, before opening the book and returning to the pages.

He has heard variants of those words countless times before, yet they never fail to drive those needles past his thin layer of skin—not even deep enough to be fatal, but they swivel on the outermost layer of muscle persistently. He can only scoff as a response, pushing himself out the door with a tattered frown staining his face.

The walk to the park mimics that of yesterday’s. He lets not a single thought develop in his mind as he walks down the street, maintaining that disgusting downturn of his lips as the calm breeze brushes against him. The gentle weather is unable to flick the needles out of his skin, though they are slightly loosened once the moss-wearing fence comes into view. He quickens his pace just a bit as he approaches, laying eyes upon the one he has been anticipating to see ever since he closed the door of his home.

 “Toya,” Akito says once his presence catches his attention. Akito's eyes wander from him to the ground inconsistently, and Toya notices how it differs from his usual focused gaze.

(Though, that’s not to say Toya ever stares enough to notice. Not to the extent where he would admit such a thing, anyway.)

“Hello, Akito,” he greets simply. A pause rests upon them as Toya searches for what to follow up with, though he eventually settles on asking, “Are you feeling alright?”

Akito’s eyes break out of their trance, having been aimed at Toya for longer than ten seconds now, and he ends up breathing out a dejected sigh. “Not really. I wanted us to practice singing a little more tonight, but I forgot the mics in my room.”

“Ah,” Toya breathes in acknowledgement. “Are we not able to sing without them?”

“No, no—I mean, we can, but…it’s just better with the mics on us, y’know?” Akito shuffles around. “I sing better when I hear your voice clearer, and it’s harder to do that without them. Besides, I’ve already thought of a replacement, so there’s no need to worry.”

The needles soften on his skin, gradually falling to the floor. “I feel the same,” he says, somehow without stumbling on his words. “But what is the alternative?”

Akito holds the sole of his foot behind his back for a few seconds. “Cardio,” he says as he puts that foot down to hold up the other. “It’s good for you to get some exercise in outside of doing choreography.”

Toya affirms with a nod, opting to stand beside Akito. “I see. Well, I’m ready whenever you are.”

Returning the gesture, Akito takes a few steps towards the entrance of the park, Toya carefully following behind. Once Akito confirms they’re on the same page, he turns to the left and begins the jog.

As it always seems to be, Toya follows and follows. He is close enough to Akito that he can hear the controlled breaths he takes that line up with the stomps of his shoes on the uneven concrete, yet he is far enough not to be directly side-by-side. Toya himself is not as composed, though; the further they jog down the street, turning random corners and diving into random alleyways that Akito seems so familiar with, the louder the crookedness of his own breathing becomes—that of which cannot easily align with Akito's. Yet that is just how it has always been, and though Toya was regarded highly in his own right for having a good ear to music when they first met—when he first decided childishly to run away and sing at that street of opportunity—it does not yet amount to Akito's efforts. The sweat that routinely drips off the nape of his neck, the dips and turns they take and the ones they do not: it is all ingrained in the back of Akito’s hand, tattooed on him permanently while Toya stands outside the parlor, walking in with not a single mark of ink on his body.

Perhaps that is all it ever will be—and such an idea addles him deeply. He knows his desires, his urge to remain here by Akito’s side and follow through with this handed-down dream, yet it is unable to be formed into any kind of expression. It cowers behind his eardrums instead, locked deep within the ears that have been trained to tune perfection for a decade and some, cursed with the inability to escape.

Yet, sometimes, it catches onto something. It catches onto the excited huffs of laughter that escape Akito's slightly chapped lips after a live and the sounds of his voice amplified through the microphone. It catches onto something now, where it regains a heartbeat once more before it can be crushed under the weight of conformity, tuning in to the sweet-sounding hums Akito lets out as they continue to jog.

The heartbeat grows louder. It thumps and thumps, whitening out the sounds of cars and people passing by until his own breathing, too, becomes muffled.

His ears begin to ache. They itch with hidden passion, slowly bringing the voice to his head and injecting the tune into his mind. Despite the expanding headache, where parts of his mind are being torn to pieces the more he obsesses over the song, he realizes more strikingly that he could be like this forever.

He desperately tries to quicken his pace against the blurred world surrounding him. It tries to tear him asunder, burning the outlines of his eyes as the edges of his vision fade to darkness while the voice gets louder and louder. The only thing leading him now is the instinctive move to follow that sound: to reach out to it and pierce his nails through, to keep them attached. By now it’s completely absorbed him, turning the agonizing steps of the jog into ones of a strange, prickly pleasure. His ragged breaths sting against his throat, and yet he continues chasing that voice. He could get drunk on that voice.

They take another turn into an alleyway, but this time Toya’s ankle caves beneath him, colliding him with the floor. He groans at the impact, at the burning, thumping pain in his palm that tried unsuccessfully to cushion his fall, and it alerts Akito to stop humming and turn around. Though his vision is still opaque, Toya can make out his frame hurriedly dropping to his side, grabbing the scraped hand with an ocean of sweat covering his palm.

He doesn’t know what Akito is saying to him in this moment. The rushed words he produces are all washed out by his gentle singing that still plagues Toya's mind, thousands of lyrics and songs and tunes overlapping one another—and, suddenly, Toya's other hand tugs at the hem of Akito’s jacket, slightly tugging him down.

He looks upon that face stained with worry, deep into those olive eyes that seem to drown everyone and everything else out. His grip tightens. Toya pulls him closer.

“Can I…stay the night, Akito?”

He'd want nothing more than to drown in that liquor.

“…Huh?”

“I,” Toya stutters, flinching as the sweat from Akito’s palm seeps into the open wound, “want to stay the night at your house.”

“I mean, I know what you asked, but…” Akito’s face scrunches slightly, his hold loosening little by little until Toya grips his fingers around his injured palm, now wincing at the scrape that closes in on itself. Then Akito blinks, looking back and forth at the ground and at Toya before asking, “But first, are you good? Can you stand?”

Toya opens his mouth, hesitates, then takes a low breath. “Yes, I’m okay.” He slides his burning hand further into Akito’s and grips at his wrist against the pain while his other releases Akito's jacket. Akito grabs that receding hand, which has only been lightly bruised, and slowly tugs Toya's upper body off the ground, his feet gradually finding the surface and restoring balance as he leans on Akito.

A shallow pain strikes Toya's ankle as he presses it to the ground, emitting a soft hiss from him as he keeps his weight on his other foot. “You sure you’re okay?” Akito asks once more, wrapping one of Toya’s arms around his shoulders for comfort.

The further Toya leans in, though, the more prone he becomes to intoxication. “Yes, I’m sure,” he confirms. He doesn’t dare to look at Akito. “It’s only a sprain. But, aside from that…”

“Oh, yeah, uh,” Akito stutters. “I don’t mind if you spend the night. But your dad…won’t he get upset?”

Toya presses his lips into a frown. “I’m sure,” he whispers, and he adds nothing more.

Akito spares no other words as he starts walking back from where they came, but he does so slowly to let Toya lightly skip off his sprained foot, minimizing the amount of times he scrunches his face in discomfort. The walk (or, rather, the limp, in Toya’s case) ends up not taking as long as Toya initially thought when they rounded their first corner, but quietness lies upon them, making for a slightly embarrassing travel. Despite the awkwardness, Toya is more than content, even through the burning sensation that runs within his foot at each rabbit-hop skip he takes. He hopes—or perhaps he begs—to maintain this closeness, gripping Akito's jacket a little tighter until he must loosen it as they approach the front door.

Getting Toya into the house, up the stairs, and onto the edge of Akito’s bed proves to be more difficult than the extraneous walk they took to get here. Toya himself doesn’t comprehend the reality of his impulsive decision, mindlessly staring at the small carpet on the floor with papers sprinkled about. He only comes to once Akito pulls the chair by his desk over and carefully takes Toya’s ankle, which continues to burn despite no change in color, to rest his foot on the chair.

“I’ll be back,” Akito says quietly, fingers lingering for a moment longer than they should have before he retracts and leaves the room.

He spares no room for thought, though. Far before Toya’s mind could wander down a strange, Akito-centered spiral, Akito returns with a small, wet towel, gauze, and another item in his hands, closing the door behind him.

Toya stares at the foreign object Akito has as he puts the towel and gauze down, pushing a hand through and opening it. He notices that it looks almost like a sock—but socks usually have no wide holes to keep the heel and toes open. Compelled by curiosity, as Akito seems to obviously have the intention to slide it onto Toya's foot with the way he cautiously lifts his ankle, he moves to speak—yet he gets cut off as he hears, “It’s a brace.”

Toya closes his mouth and nods instead, clenching his teeth as the brace compels his ankle to sizzle when it slides on. Once his foot fits into it, Akito tightens the brace with the straps and releases his foot onto the chair.

 “How is it?”

Toya rocks his foot left and right, pulsing with each move. “It’s tight,” he mumbles.

“Sorry. It’s supposed to be,” Akito replies. It offers no comfort, but Toya doesn’t refute. Akito reaches for one of the pillows at the top of his bed to lay against the end. “But if it gets to be too much, you can loosen the straps.” He slowly wraps his palms underneath Toya’s covered ankle, motioning for them to turn with a nudge of his head. At the signal, Toya carefully shifts over, allowing Akito to rest the foot atop the pillow. “You can sleep in my bed. I’ll take the floor.”

“Are you sure that’s okay?” Toya asks, wearily staring between the ground and Akito. “I don’t mind sleeping on the floor.”

“No, it’s better for your ankle if you elevate it,” he sighs. “It won’t do much for you to be on the floor.”

At his reasoning, Toya could do nothing more but hum and sink into the oddly stiff cushions below him.

“Don’t fall asleep yet,” Akito mumbles jokingly, grabbing the leftover items off the coffee table.

Toya turns his head to face him with an odd look—that is, until a piercing pain emits from his palm. He hisses under his breath at the sudden ache, watching as Akito presses the wet cloth tightly onto the large scrape on his palm. As Toya’s hand slightly trembles in his hold, Akito tosses the cloth aside and takes the gauze, stretching it out and beginning to wrap it around the wound.

“It’s just a scrape, Akito,” Toya says quietly, somewhat in response to the tense expression on Akito’s face that has not lifted since he fell. “I’ll be fine.”

The words fail to cease his movement, and he gets no response until Akito finishes wrapping his entire palm over. “Yeah, but it’ll be less of a pain to cover it. I don’t have any band-aids large enough, though, so this is the next best thing.”

Akito lets go of his arm and places the remaining gauze on the coffee table, then looks Toya’s way. The moment doesn’t last long—once Toya worms his fingers around to make them the slightest bit more comfortable in the bandage, Akito shifts from his bedside to the thin blanket and pillow on the floor, causing Toya to bring his gaze to nowhere but the ceiling.

He stares at the patch of darkness above him as silence encloses the two in its palms, letting the few rough edges of the cushions scratch his skin until his conscious revolves around the sensation. The only patch of light that exists is the light of the hallway peeking beneath the door, only able to illuminate the pillow that Akito currently sleeps on without a single sound. Toya, however, continuously shifts on the surface of the bed, each attempt at reaching relaxation ending worse than it started. His ankle continues to throb no matter how he angles himself, which causes him to concede and lay facing the wall, keeping his eyes open until they begin to sting. Only once it leaks a scorching poison into his temples and makes his head pound with an unbearable ache does Toya close his eyes, letting the cool air of the room blanket him.

The bed of thin razors and worn-out fabrics turns into that of white clouds and pristine, unimaginable silk.

Chapter Text

They have conquered the shelf, sprawling over the wall without shame.

Thankfully, they did not invade his dreams that night to greet him in the morning. Rather, he wakes up to the awfully bright sunlight piercing through the window and the slight increase in temperature that he surely did not fall asleep to. The more he blinks himself to full consciousness, the more he notices how he clings to a strange fabric much unlike the wintry one that typically blankets him. This one is softer, thinner, and kinder than that of the abrasive linen in his memory, and once he fully rises off the bed, careful to keep his lower body as still as possible, he finally makes more sense of his surroundings than when he first arrived in the middle of the night.

Colorful posters, all different in length and width, line the walls in a careless, unsymmetrical manner. Papers with words scattered about on the surface are not just on the floor, but rather all over the desk and coffee table, too. The trashcan is overflowing with crumbled balls of paper, and some torn pages lay about in the corners of the room. Before he can further analyze the books on the desk or the extremely thin sketchbook that hides behind them, he notices the barren state of the floor—including a lonely pillow and empty blanket.

He skims the room for the owner, yet the search only turns successful once the door opens to reveal Akito on the other end, fully dressed in his school uniform. “Morning,” he mumbles and wipes the smallest stain of toothpaste off the side of his mouth. “You sleep okay?”

Toya hums. “A little.”

Akito simply nods back, inching further into the room until he stood at the bedside. “And your ankle?”

Toya takes in a breath, then wiggles his ankle around. “I’m not sure,” he responds plainly.

“That’s alright,” Akito sighs and gently places his hands upon the brace. He slowly unwraps the straps and positions his fingers at the bottom to remove it. Before he pulls, though, he gives a quick glance Toya’s way, and once Toya nods with fingernails delved into the bedsheets, Akito begins to remove it. The covered skin is slightly sweaty, cold once it makes contact with the open air, yet the thick, swollen feeling has loosened since yesterday night.

“Do you wanna try walking?” Akito asks as he tosses the brace aside. Toya nods, and with no further words, he gradually swings his legs over the edge of the bed as Akito holds out his hands. Deviating his own from the blankets, Toya grips onto Akito's palms, letting him tug his weight up until he balances on his feet. He pushes pressure down onto his lightly bruised ankle and his eye twitches, yet no noise escapes.

“How’s it feel?”

“I think I can walk.” He releases Akito’s hands, taking a practice step forward. He still feels a twinge in his ankle, yet the pain seems less intensive than that of yesterday’s.

Akito, after observing the few steps Toya takes around the room, makes his way back to the door. “Just make sure to take it slow. I have some snacks if you want one before we go,” he says, turning to the stairwell. “Let's stop by your house before school, though. So you can get your uniform.”

Toya nods again, even though the affirmative action was out of sight, and trails behind Akito, holding onto the railing for support. Though he was too oddly aware of the emptiness in his stomach, grabbing even the littlest thing from the pantry Akito rummages through feels impossible. He stands awkwardly at the front door and waits for Akito to finish; yet, once Akito makes way to his side by the door, he notices his palm holding something out in offering.

It's nothing fancy like fine jewelry or a relic—just a plain granola bar. They meet eyes for a moment, where Akito’s gaze tells him to take it even if it gets forgotten, and eventually Toya sighs and places the snack in his pocket.

He can hear it crinkle with each step they take down the somewhat empty street. The morning breeze is sharp despite the jacket he is cuddled in, inconsistent with its attacks. He ends up facing down for most of their journey to his home, unable to utter a word to Akito through the strangely dense silence. It takes them a while to arrive at the gates, where Toya’s stagnant expression chips with a slight frown—though he supposes Akito misses it by the way he waves a short, momentary goodbye. He returns the gesture and unfortunately makes his way through the gates, only able to look up once the front door shuts behind him.

Toya now stands on the cold tiles of his home with such an abominable sight awaiting him. He stares as the large gathering of termites tear into the shelf further, making the fake gold cups and monotone photo frames their abode. They have started scattering about on the tiles, too, and some make paths to other parts of the house. The hole in the corner can now fit himself should he want to crawl through—but with how his feet are stapled to the ground, he knows he would never.

The scene in the living room, though, in ways other than the termites, has yet to alter. His father, with that same book turned to that same page, continues to read on the couch just beside the infestation. His mother is in the kitchen, preparing herself something for breakfast while a grouping of those insects swirl around the farthest edge of the counter.

His legs begin to tense. He takes of his shoes and moves towards the stairwell without a word.

It probably won’t be much of an issue, anyway. Such a thought pulses endlessly in his mind, reminding him to ignore the ordeal until it passes. All he has to do is swallow his fear and wait.

Just before he takes the first step of the stairs, he feels a small bump beneath the sole of his foot. Slowly, he raises it into view, eyeing the small, dead bug that lies attached to his sock.

He continues to mindlessly stare into it for perhaps ages until he releases his foot, directing his gaze to the open book in his father’s hands.

“Do you really not see it?” He asks. The book closes, though Toya struggles to meet the eyes of his father.

He can feel those eyes carving holes into him. “What?”

Toya’s fingers claw at his jeans. “Them,” he says reluctantly, finally able to bring his head up to stare at the half-devoured shelf. His father follows his gaze, but his reaction fails to change as he stares at the swarm of termites. His father remains still.

Suddenly, the suffocating silence breaks with a sigh, followed by a nonchalant, “We can get a new home.”

After the statement, his father turns back to his book, withstanding that constant uninterested look on his face as his eyes skim the words. Toya’s fingers lose their grip and fall limp at his sides, a thick weight tugging at his chest. He eyes his mother in the kitchen, continuing to make herself a meal while the bugs dance around her plate, inching inward to invade. His frown scrunches and thickens as he fights to retort, mouthing air in hopes something comes out—yet he is rendered immobile as not one of his thousands of thoughts are vocalized. Helplessly, and with a curt, whispered scoff, he turns to the stairs and stomps up to his room, slamming the door behind him.

They have yet to conquer his room up here, but he knows it is only a matter of time until it happens. Still, he cannot imagine himself delving into the herd himself, tackling them swiftly and rebuilding the eaten walls from scratch. The vision only puts him on the edge of vomiting, so he tunes it out and hurriedly changes into his school uniform, grabbing his bag and tearing off another sticky note from his desk. He takes a new pen and hangs over the piece of colored paper, wasting no time in writing a message and returning to the now empty kitchen to slap the note on the very edge of the counter where it is just about impossible to miss.

Ignoring the few stray bugs that scatter about the tiles, he walks back towards the door and slides his shoes back onto his feet.

As his hand lays upon the door handle, he hears, “Quit being so reckless.”

The comment itself is so short—and he had heard such words uttered from his father before, so it was certainly not foreign—yet it causes him to strangle the doorknob with his barely injured hand. He lets out yet another huff and pushes himself through the door, once again letting it slam behind him.

As Toya walks to the gate to return to Akito’s side, he rips the gauze off his hand and shoves it in his pocket carelessly, letting the wind gnaw at the parts that have yet to scab over. He shoves the hand into the pocket of his uniform, willfully ignorant to if the pocket of his uniform is slightly stained with a red-orange hue, and the walk to school resumes.

While the day feels horribly stale, he finds just a moment of peace as he fits into his desk, mindlessly expanding on his notes as the teacher carries the lesson away. His mind repeats none of what he writes down as he lets his hands do all the talking, a feeble attempt to silence his thoughts. Even when lunch rolls around and he meets on the rooftop to have his meal with Akito, he does not speak unless prompted to. He ends up remembering that he brought nothing with him from home anyway, so he spends most of their time washing off Akito’s worry that he wasn’t eating with a simple, “I don’t eat much during lunch, anyway.”

Akito does not ask about the granola bar, but Toya knows that he eyes the pocket it’s in a couple times as he takes small bites of his food. Akito ends up not eating much himself, and more than half the lunch remains as they leave the rooftop and depart for the rest of their classes.

It all passes by like dead leaves scraping the concrete. By the time everyone else springs out of their seats, grabbing their bags and leaving in groups to go home or to after-school activities, he’s still at his desk, hovering the pen above his notebook without the temptation to get up. He only pries his eyes away from the page when a familiar figure comes into sight, standing in front of his desk. He knows it’s Akito—there’s no one else it would be—and instinctively packs his bag and swings it onto his shoulder, standing up to his side.

They leave without a sound, where Toya is unable to bring his head up and meet Akito’s gaze. He knows Akito is looking his way, hoping for Toya to look back, but it churns his stomach to think of what he’d even say to him. The air around them thickens and thins sporadically, where Toya feels the need to say something. He needs to apologize more than anything—nothing should leave his mouth right now other than that.

His injured palm quivers as he comes up with the right words, terrified of breaking the silence—until Akito does it first.

“Your foot still doing okay?” He asks. Toya manages to look at him, but now Akito’s staring straight at the scramble crossing.

“It’s not that bad. It only stings a bit.”

“And your hand?”

“Same there.”

They cross the street, stopping at the turn Toya usually takes to go home. Akito waits for Toya to initiate his departure, but all Toya can do is look down at the concrete, fingers flinching as he scrunches his injured hand inward. He knows Akito notices the missing bandage, but he is silently thankful that no comment on the matter arises. Instead, what fills their silence is a simple question.

“Do you wanna spend the night again?” Akito ends up asking. With the way his lips are slightly pursed in a frown and the inability to look at Toya—even if Toya was first to ignore his eyes—Toya knows that it’s something Akito shouldn’t be doing. Toya knows that it’s wrong for himself to want this in the first place: he ought to be on his way home now, back to that icebox of a home where the walls do not echo.

Even though this is the last thing he should do—the last thing he should want—Toya nods and mumbles, “Yes.”

Akito doesn’t question any of it and simply nods, taking the lead in their walk back to his home. Toya follows a step behind, but Akito slows his pace so they can stand shoulder-to-shoulder. The silence seems relieving on the surface, but its icy stems prick into Toya’s skin. He wants to hear his voice again, to let the honey-sweet sound calm his nerves and soften the thistles growing in his chest that keep his heart pounding. There is no way for him to ask for it, however, which keeps them in another silent walk until Akito’s home comes into view.

The nothingness in the air lingers until the two of them have made it up to Akito’s room. Toya stands there awkwardly, as if he is barred from interacting with anything in the space. He simply watches as Akito takes of the blazer of his uniform and tosses it haphazardly onto the floor, somewhere by his closet, and grabs a notebook and pen off his desk. Akito sits on the edge of his bed, opening the notebook to a random page, then looks up at Toya. He doesn’t say anything, but Toya knows that look is an invitation, one that he can’t ever ignore even if his ankle trembles ever so slightly as he draws near. Toya sits beside him, quiet and observant, as Akito’s gaze returns to the notebook in his lap.

“We can just work on songs today. Don’t wanna put more pressure on your foot too early, so we’ll take it easy.” Toya’s only response is a nod, watching as Akito brings his pen up to the page.

The proximity, however, is almost too much for him to bear. Though he hears Akito as he thinks aloud, writing notes in the margins absentmindedly for possible ideas to progress the song, his own mind is wrapped around everything but the topic at hand. Akito’s voice thumps once more in his head, fading into that gentle lullaby that conquers over all comprehensible thoughts. Toya stares at the page only to hide the fact that his mind is far removed from whatever is being discussed as every other sensation overrides his ability to focus. The gentle brushing of their shoulders, the hand in his lap that could reach out and hold Akito’s with the littlest effort if he felt he were allowed, the sunlight peering through the window and landing on the pages of the notebook and the edges of Akito’s hair, illuminating it with a gentle glow: he takes in everything, all at once, and claws at it in the deepest part of his stomach. The only thing he can think of, and the only thought that stands out against Akito's sweet, alluring voice, is that he can’t move a single inch. He cannot let this go.

What was once a passive thought now becomes intrusive. It bears its fangs, decorated in the blood of having devoured all other senses—now threatening to overtake him, too. Though he knows he ought to say something in response to Akito’s comments, even if just a little hum as acknowledgement that he’s following along, he remains stilled, needing to absorb everything about this one moment. He holds it closer and closer to his chest until it threatens to melt his skin to meet his ribcage, and even then he can’t let go, only grasping it tighter to his chest until he no longer feels anything else. He relishes in this, hoping their closeness envelopes him so that everything else that pesters him can finally burn away. It’s the only way he can keep himself distracted from the fact that, eventually, he’ll have to go home again.

He’ll have to return to that termite-infested home and gaze upon his mother and father, presumably in the same spots that they always have been, and watch as the place he grew up in slowly starts to deteriorate. The hoard will then reach his room and crawl over every inch and crevice of it: his bed, his nightstand, the piano, the floors. He’ll have to close the door behind him and, with nothing more than a single, petrified step, he’ll be swallowed by them, unable to do anything more than watch as they spiral up his ankles and up his leg, poking and biting at anything they can munch on. What is he supposed to do then? Would it even be possible to get rid of them at that point? Would there be meaning, by then, in reaching a hand out, despite the crawling of bugs that prick his skin, and hoping someone—Akito—could pull him out?

There would be no point in that, though. He knows this is not something Akito can solve. Toya cannot hope for him to solve such a towering issue on his own. But he knows that he can—even if he already knows they exist. Is he really fine with them tearing down the place? Is he really going to buy a new house instead of trying to preserve the one they already have? Why is it that this seems to matter only to Toya and not the owners of the house itself?

He can’t solve this on his own. He’s no exterminator—just looking at so few of them gets him to shiver and avert his gaze. So what is he meant to do?

He hears a voice. It’s Akito’s voice, saying something to him as he suddenly turns his head from the pages and up towards Toya's unmoving body. Even still, Toya finds himself unable to respond, still enthralled by the way his hair shines and the way their shoulders are pressed against one another. The moment burns and crackles in his hold and starts making way into his chest as he feels a heat rise within him. The pressure squeezes his muscles and urges him to move, but he needs to keep himself here. He cannot let this go, nor can he let himself be swept away by the intimidating thought of the home that awaits him tomorrow. He cannot move, he cannot speak; he can do nothing more than to let this closeness soak him up, for all he is, until his vision slowly blurs once again.

A hand grips his shoulder. The grasp is firm, and it tears him out of the spiral.

Toya blinks, and finally, he looks up at Akito. He seems as though he’s maintaining his cool, but his face is absolutely plagued with worry beneath the surface.

“Sorry, I…” Toya quickly apologizes. He had nothing to follow up with, truthfully, despite sounding as much, so he quickly makes up something instead. “I guess I’m just tired.”

Akito stares back—a questioning look, one that suspects there’s more to that statement than the surface-level comfort it wants to offer, but the suspicion is never mentioned in voice. “My bad,” Akito says, and closes the notebook. “We probably should’ve eaten first. You haven’t had anything all day.”

Akito stands up, tossing the notebook and pen on the floor amongst some other miscellaneous objects, and gestures for Toya to follow. “How about we get something downstairs? It’s nothing fancy, but we got leftovers.”

Toya reluctantly lets the moment go, but still holds on to Akito’s presence like a lifeline. “Okay,” is all he manages to say, standing up and ignoring the minuscule sting in his ankle when he does.

The day passes at a mundane pace with not much to fill the air between them. They eat mostly in silence, save for anything Akito brings up as a way to keep the mood less awkward, and at that Toya is only able to say the smallest responses. Even as they return to Akito’s room, in the exact position they had been before going downstairs, the only sound to be heard is the careful scribbling of Akito’s pen. Akito continues to talk to Toya, despite the fact that his responses are short and affirmative, and Akito's absentminded comments still float around in the air, paired with a few moments where he sings parts of the lyrics to hear how they sound and determine whether he should alter them or not. Though Toya feels a bit hollow at the fact he is mostly silent, he is unsure of how to even step in and wonders if he even can. He glances at Akito’s deeply focused expression and nearly gets himself lost once more, finding that he can’t disturb such an intricate countenance, so he doesn’t. They remain like this until the sun sets, dropping the lighting in the room to a dim glow, and only then does Toya break the monotony to stand from the bed.

Akito finishes a line, then looks up at Toya. Toya looks his way, conscious to avoid eye contact. “Akito,” he calls his name. Akito’s hold on the pen loosens, and as if he knew already what Toya was going to say, he closes the notebook and clicks the pen shut.

“Tired? Yeah, you and I both,” he stands as well, placing the notebook and pen on the coffee table. “I’m gonna brush my teeth. Maybe take a shower too, while I’m at it. I have some spare clothes for you if you wanna use them too,” he walks over to his closet, motioning to a few oversized shirts and shorts lingering around.

“No, it’s fine,” Toya says almost instinctively. “I can sleep fine like this.”

“In your uniform you’ve been in all day? No way,” Akito laughs, just barely, and grabs a shirt and set of shorts at random. “I’m not letting you sleep like that. C’mon, just put these on.” He tosses the pair of clothing to Toya, and he reluctantly catches it. Toya digs into the fabric, but he can’t find it in him to argue any further.

“Alright,” he mumbles, in some kind of dejected manner, and watches Akito grab another pair of clothing for himself before heading towards the door. With a quick comment that he’ll be right back, he leaves and shuts the door behind him.

He cannot let this go. He thinks this once more as he looks around the room. And yet, against that desire, he wonders how long he can keep this up. How long can he use Akito’s home as a selfish refuge? How long can he keep Akito by his side until he breaks apart by realizing he’d just been acting as a parasite all along?

At the questions invading his mind, he notices the more hidden parts of Akito’s room he’d never caught notice of yesterday. There are small blotches of dull, worn-out paint, and some holes are bare of any paint entirely. Some spots in the walls are torn, aged, dried, and broken, hiding behind pieces of furniture or simply ignored against the rest of the light-orange paint that seems to wrap the entire room, feigning a sense of normalcy and content. Now that he’s noticed it, the only thing he can do now while hearing the faint sound of running water is stare at them. He wants to look away, to believe these walls are sturdy enough to hold them both within the space, but he ends up feeling misaligned. He is an outsider, a foreign entity, and he feels the air tense around him. Before he knows it, the small spaces in the walls form eyes, pupils that peer into him without remorse and tear him down atom by atom until he can’t take the sensation anymore, shoving his face into the shirt in some desperate, futile attempt to hide himself.

In the darkness, he feels something crawl up his leg. It climbs and climbs until it finds its way beneath his shirt and up his arm—until he can focus on nothing but the agonizing feeling of microscopic legs forging a path across his skin. He knows what they are. No layer of clothing can ever shield him from these pests, and he’s left to subject himself to their dominating march. They spread across the surface of his body: across his chest and elbows, up the nape of his neck and down the calf of his leg. They crawl into the palms of his hands and swarm around his injury, picking and prodding at the shallowness of it to invade. And they do, eventually, make their way beneath his skin, beginning their exploration of the innermost parts of himself like the shameless creatures they are.

He shivers and lets out a ragged breath. He does not want this—he has to detach himself from this wretched imagery, pull himself back into reality: but how? How can he do such a thing when staring back into those walls will only lead him down another road of hollowness?

Has he ever been in a position to save himself, anyway? Or has it always been thanks to someone else?

Whatever the answer is, he doesn’t get any further before he hears the door open. He instantly brings his head up and looks at the door, wondering when the noise of running water had faded, and watches Akito ruffle his hair dry with the towel clung around his shoulders.

“You can use the bathroom now,” he says, hanging the towel over his desk chair. “There’s a spare toothbrush in the bottom cabinet you can use. If you wanna shower, I don’t mind either, but don’t use my sister’s soap. She’ll find some way to pin it on me and get me to buy her something.”

Toya finds a thin smile lining his face despite his sour mood. “Okay,” he says plainly, taking his leave to the bathroom to get changed and brush his teeth. He finds the spare toothbrush and freshens himself up before changing into the spare clothes. Staring at himself in the mirror brings an uneasy feeling to Toya’s stomach afterwards, but he swallows it down and returns to Akito’s room.

Toya places his folded uniform near the closet doors. The room glows under the remnants of the sunset outside the window, yet all Toya can gaze upon is how Akito shuffles around on the floor, adjusting his pillow and blanket for where he will presumably sleep again tonight. But Toya's lips press together as he watches, a sinking feeling swirling around in his stomach where an anxiety blooms viciously against it. He can’t let Akito sleep on the floor for the second night in a row—it’s too unfair of him.

“Akito,” Toya calls out, voice barely above a whisper. Akito catches it, however soft it was, and gives him a questioning look. “Please, let me take the floor.”

“No way,” Akito shakes his head. “Your ankle still hurts a little, yeah? It’ll be better for you to sleep on the bed.”

“It doesn’t hurt anymore, really.”

“Well, even if it doesn’t, take it anyway. Plus, isn’t your hand still injured?”

Toya looks down at his palm. Most of it is already starting to scab over, but the middlemost section still burns when Toya closes his palm. “That doesn’t matter. I can’t let you sleep on the floor again.”

He couldn’t stand to see another night with Akito on the floor, even if it were to have only happened twice. This is Akito’s home, yet he’s sleeping in Akito’s bed—eating Akito’s food, using his spare toothbrush, wearing his spare clothes, singing with his microphone in his street. It’s unfair for him to sleep on the floor again.

“Look, if you’re worried, you don’t hafta be,” Akito tries to reassure him. “I don’t mind the floor, for real. Don’t beat yourself up over it.”

Toya looks at Akito for only a spare moment before it becomes too much to bear.

“No, that’s not…”

All he does is take, take, take; how much more will he strip away from Akito, really? How much longer will he hide himself away in this home with nothing to give in return?

“That’s not it,” Toya whispers this time, unable to raise his voice.

“What are you talking about?” Akito’s confused tone seeps into his expression. He slowly rises from the floor to be at eye level.

Toya holds the gaze, silence lingering over them for seconds. Perhaps, he thinks, that if he really is just acting akin to a leech, soaking in so much reprieve from his time with Akito with nothing much to show for it, then maybe he is unworthy of being called his partner. The thought tightens his throat, stings his eyes—and yet it’s true, he knows, that he’d always been lacking in the passion Akito speaks so fondly of. Toya is nothing like that—nothing at all like the ambitious flame standing before him—but he dares to stay by Akito’s side so selfishly.

“Toya? You good?”

He hears Akito searching for some kind of affirmation while Toya remains stuck in the truth of his emotions. He’d doubted his ability to stay by Akito’s side before, but it’s more prominent than ever now, spreading over every inch of his mind. He really is a parasite, sticking so closely to Akito despite the fact that he can never give that amount of dedication back, that of which Akito is known for. He’s been floating in limbo this entire time, the remnants of his past coming back each time he wanders too far ahead to pull him back down; he knows, despite how much it makes his heart sink, that this is not the partner Akito deserves.

“Hey, Toya?”

Akito draws closer. If he is unworthy of being called his partner, then truly, he ought to just leave—but even inviting that thought into his brain makes his teeth clench. It’s more than just the fact he doesn’t want to, but he can’t. Toya can’t imagine himself leaving, walking back to that infested home to wait until the bugs find their way to his room. He knows it’s wrong to stay here and yet, at the realization that he is too weak to do anything else, he closes his injured palm tighter, almost as if to punish himself for what he says.

“Then join me.”

It's not as airy like a whisper, but it’s quieter than his normal tone. Akito pauses, takes a moment to digest the words, then finally breathes out a, “Huh?”

“There’s enough room for both of us, right?” Toya continues to look at Akito, watching as he glances towards the bed, then back at him.

“Yeah, I…guess so, but…”

Akito looks away, almost as if he were embarrassed, but quickly covers it up with a sigh. “Okay, fine, you win,” he lets out, climbing into the bed and under the covers, shifting close to the wall to leave enough room for Toya. “I can tell you won’t budge on this, huh?”

Toya wants to let out some kind of laugh at that, but he can’t. All he can bring himself to do is nod and mumble a short, soft, “Thank you.”

Following after Akito, Toya lays on the other side of the bed. Truthfully, there’s not as much room as they both believed, with Akito shifting himself to lay on his side a rather subtle way to show it, but Toya’s mind would be unable to settle otherwise. Toya keeps himself fixated on the ceiling while Akito is silent beside him, presumably entering the beginning stages of rest, eyes closed and all.

Toya can’t look at him, even though there’s the largest urge in his stomach that begs him to. He wants to gaze upon those features he’s grown to adore—to appreciate the closeness they have, to soak in this moment like he had all the others—and yet he knows he can’t do such a thing anymore. Continuing like this would only destroy them both, as if it already weren’t tearing away at Toya’s interior, and he can’t be any more selfish than he already has been.

But what about the future? Can he really accept leaving this refuge behind and returning to that vile, rotten home, the place that ate at him in the same way those pests are eating at the walls? As he thinks of that, he shudders, and suddenly it becomes much harder to breathe. He can’t go back there. He doesn’t want to go back there: he wants to stay here. But does he deserve to stay here? No, absolutely he doesn’t—so where, now, with buried desires and no sense of direction, should he even go?

Toya brings a hand up to his bangs and tugs at them, turning his knuckles white. His mind is wandering in loop after loop, destroying itself with each thought he entertains, but he can do nothing more. Finally, he brings down his arm to turn over towards Akito. He’s already out cold, mouth slightly parted with steady, easy breaths, but Toya can only look for half a minute until it becomes too much. He seems to create another loop like this—looking up at the ceiling, then to Akito, then to the hidden holes and cracks in the walls, then to Akito, then back at the ceiling.

Like the night before, Toya keeps his eyes open until they burn and sear. His dream begins with a familiar voice, the one of the cool autumn weather and the sweetness of the sunset, and he yields to it, letting it lull him further into a fleeting dream.

Chapter Text

They are nearly everywhere, finally spreading across the rooms upstairs. The house cannot stand much longer.

Toya envisioned them overtaking him in his dreams, causing him to snap his eyes open. The hairs on his skin were still on edge, every fiber alert, but all that greets him is the sunlight peeking through the window, striking the orange walls to mimic a new sunrise. The vision is still hazy, however gentle it may be, and he blinks a few times to straighten out his sight and adjust to the lighting of the room.

The bed shifts from beneath him. As he’s only half-awake, he reacts seconds too late, but still leans over on his side to face where that movement came from. He watches as Akito groans and lifts a wrist to his eyes to rub them, wiping the thin layer of morning tears before returning the gaze. They stay like this, stilled for perhaps minutes, where Toya has no intention of breaking their silence out of fear that he will lose yet another moment of Akito’s closeness. But it is disturbed eventually when Akito smiles, just the smallest upturn of the edge of his lips, and says, “Morning.”

The greeting is simple, but it still locks Toya in place. His gaze wanders from his eyes to his hair and the hand lazily running through it. There’s the urge to reach out and grab it—to hold that hand and everything Akito is in place so as it can never leave—but the fantasy is cut short when Akito starts sitting up, releasing a groan as he stretches his back. “Wish I set an alarm,” Akito mumbles to himself, gazing around the room. “Got school today too…hope we ain’t late.”

But when he bends his knees with the intention of leaving the bed, Toya’s hand moves, as if on its own, and grabs Akito’s wrist. He raises a brow at Toya, but he doesn’t elaborate from his place lying on the bed. Toya doesn’t even have the heart to look at him—he keeps his gazed fixed on the wall, offering a shallow prayer that the mundane sight will be replaced with a sigh and Akito flopping back onto the mattress, submitting to Toya’s mute and selfish desire. Of course, such a prayer goes unanswered when Akito’s lips, at the edge of his vision, tighten to a frown.

“C’mon, Toya,” he sighs. “I gotta check the time.”

It’s enough for Toya to loosen his hold, but his hand stutters before it completely breaks away from Akito’s wrist and onto the bedding below. Toya purses his lips in his own kind of frown, something that feels unwarranted, and Akito slowly maneuvers himself over Toya to check what time it is.

The footsteps ring out in his head, making him curl into the sheets further. “Just a few minutes before school,” he eventually hears from Akito. “Guess we got lucky.”

In spite of his academically-inclined and studious nature, Toya wouldn’t consider such a discovery lucky. He knows it should be, and getting to school on time is what he should prioritize—but the only thing that lingers in his mind is that it’s quite meddlesome. He hears shuffling around the room behind his back, still holding out some vain and microscopic hope that Akito will change his mind with a yawn, sliding back into bed: back to Toya’s side. While he does hear a yawn, at least, he’s unfortunately met with the creak of the door. “Gonna go brush my teeth ‘n stuff. Make sure you get up, okay?”

The door shuts, and Toya is left in silence. The emptiness is more than enough for him to finally move from the bed, shifting up with a soft yawn. He blinks to fight the remaining blurriness of his vision, and once he can see half-normally, he gets out of the bed and wanders around the room for where he left his uniform. He finds it by the closet doors and gets dressed, folding the spare clothes he used and keeping them in that same spot where he’d put his uniform. The wait for Akito wasn’t long, and when the door to the bedroom finally opened, Toya was quick to look his way.

Akito returns the eye contact. “Nice to see you up,” he says, followed by a smile. “If you’re hungry, I can find something downstairs.”

“No thank you,” Toya mumbles lazily. He makes his way to the door, aiming for the hallway, but Akito doesn't move yet.

“Hold up,” he says, making Toya freeze in place. Akito stares at him, scanning his eyes over Toya’s appearance, until he finally moves a hand up to Toya’s hair. He pats it down a few times and huffs out a little laugh. “Your hair’s a mess. Still not a morning person, huh?”

 Toya can only pout at the tease, but it’s only half out of embarrassment. The other half stems from that painful desire to keep Akito’s hand ruffling the top of his hair, however awkward it may be, and to melt into the touch. Even when Akito steps out of the way of the door, walking further into the room to ready his things, the yearning thumps in his stomach like a ravenous beast beating on the bars of its cage. A key doesn’t exist for such a cage—but he can only be held in place by the lonely thought for so long before Akito starts to throw questions at him. For now, he makes his way out the room and into the bathroom down the hall to make himself at least half presentable for the upcoming day.

Once he finishes, he walks back into the bedroom with Akito’s spare clothes in hand to place them on the edge of the bed. The bedroom is empty, but Toya guesses that Akito’s already made his way downstairs to look for something to eat. He’s proved correct as he gradually descends the stairs, noticing the orange bed of hair wandering around the kitchen.

“You sure you don’t want something?” Akito asks once more, filing through the pantry.

“I’m alright,” Toya reassures, and all Akito can do is nod. Akito ends up taking another granola bar into his pocket and walks towards the front door, schoolbag clinging to his shoulder. “Let’s do a quick stop by your place before school. You can pick up some more clothes for staying over and whatnot.”

Akito finishes sliding on his shoes, but Toya lags, staying still by the stairs. At the silence, a slight blush blooms over Akito’s face. “Oh, uh, sorry, I assumed you’d wanna stay over again today.”

Toya exhales a short breath.

He shouldn’t indulge in his desires. He shouldn’t harbor such desires in the first place. He shouldn’t be here, not in this home as some freeloader, and he shouldn’t be giving Akito the littlest smile as he mumbles out a weak, “I do.” But he does anyway. That heavy guilt rots him and eats at his insides, scuttling around on its microscopic legs, and he can only give a small, shaky smile to the soft, serene one Akito gives back.

“Yeah,” Akito breathes out, relief wafting throughout his tone—and Toya’s skin crawls with shame. He has to look at the floor as he approaches the doorway and puts on his shoes lest he be swallowed by the light, left to drown in his own pitiful wallowing. Somehow, though, he’s able to look up once the sunlight breaks through the opened door, where he finds Akito holding the door for Toya to follow. Hesitantly, Toya takes it, letting Akito walk out first and lead them down the street towards the Aoyagi residence, the Shinonome family door closing far behind them.

The walk, as Toya predicts, is silent all the way through. The short distance between their shoulders occupies too much of Toya’s mind—and while it does, for a moment, silence the guilt pooling within him, it gradually expands those suffocating emotions. The more he relishes the simple act of walking side-by-side, the more his heart tightens and twists in his chest. He’s caught in yet another helpless loop—one where his desire burns ever brighter with a brutal doubt thumping beneath it, the dark core protruding from the shining exterior before being silence by light once again. There’s no way for him to cut open that outer shell and silence what lies within, so he must deal with that hellish vortex brewing within himself.

They will follow him everywhere, lingering close behind like an ominous shadow that whispers his own shortcomings. But for right now, at least, he can distract himself with the view of his home just a block away, even if the new questions that race in his mind are equally as unpleasant. How will the inside look like today? Will his parents have exterminated the pests that have muddied the home? Will they remain in the same spots that they have every day before, with his father reading the same page of that same book and his mother standing in that same spot in the same kitchen?

His breaths shorten as they stop just before the pathway leading to the gate. Without a sound, nor even a glance to Akito, Toya walks into the yard and up to the front door, placing his injured hand on the freezing cold doorknob. He swallows a dry patch lodged in his throat and, with fingers that tremble ever so lightly, opens the door.

They are nearly everywhere. They practically are everywhere, as they have now spread across the entire downstairs area. The shelf is on its last legs, the dining table is starting to sprout holes, and the entire home is riddled with termites that run up and down on their scurrying little legs.

It isn’t just the fact that these pests are now in every inch and corner of the house. What gets him to freeze in place the most is the sight of his father sitting right on the couch, book in hand, with not a single bug treading atop him. He is completely spotless, as if the bugs just instinctively know not to tread onto him despite how close they are. His father is equally as uninterested in the sight around him, eyes still scanning over the words on the page of his book.

Toya does not know what to do. He remains a step away from entering the home, stilled at the doorframe, watching as the bugs rummage through his own home. They have even started to make their way up the stairs, and he knows it will only be a matter of time until they bite down his door and devour his own room.

He flinches. His mouth opens, and it closes. Nothing but soft, pathetic wheezes of air puff out as he stares directly at his father, still unchanged against the nauseating setting.

Eventually, his father does tear his sights away from his book. He slowly raises his head to face the doorframe, staring down his son.

As ever, his father’s face is rigid and stiff. With a sigh, he mutters out, “How long are you going to stand there? Get inside.”

…Get inside? Inside the home that now sprouts holes in the drywall like eyes that glare at him, all-seeing and all-knowing? Inside the home on the edge of ruins where he is reduced to a bystander, unable mend those walls back together and exterminate the pests that arrogantly roam about? Inside the home where those pests will never climb atop his father, but will not pass up the chance to devour Toya piece by piece?

Yes. It is what he ought to do. He should walk back into that house and let it all pass by—this infestation really wasn’t that big of a deal at all. It probably won’t be much of an issue, anyway; he should stick to those words and shut the door behind him as he enters, staying there in the tattered house that fostered him.

But a pit opens in his stomach, rooting him to the ground. The termites weave past each other, hastily gnawing at anything their little teeth can prod, and he can’t take the step forward to enter the house. How can he when he knows he’ll be reduced to nothing when he passes the doorframe? When he knows his pleas of finding a solution would be ignored with dismissive comments and waved hands?

He looks at the scrape on his hand, almost healed and yet still stinging in the centermost part, and winces, opening his mouth once more.

No, is the first response he aches to say, but nothing comes out. The silence permeates. Yes, sir, is the second response he thinks he should say, but still nothing comes out. The silence becomes penetrating. It closes around his lungs and forms a lump in his throat, one which forces him to take shallow breaths through his mouth as he’s left to stare at the grotesque scene in his living room, the bugs slowly muddling together into a tantalizing smear of his own inaction.

His father remains atop it all, a statue against the chaos around him. But then, slowly, he moves his head aside with a slight upturning of his brow, and Toya’s chest sinks. Before he knows it, Toya snatches the handle and slams the door shut, storming back to the entrance of the yard with a thick scorn.

He doesn’t want to hear it. Any criticizing comment out of his father’s mouth at the sight behind the gates would’ve been redundant—he’s heard it all before, and he certainly doesn’t want to hear the scolding he’d get for staying at Akito’s house multiple nights in a row, let alone even once. He doesn’t want to hear that monotonous voice pressure him about how he’s supposedly wasting his life away by not sticking to that piano, that aching yet pristine thing, and he doesn’t want to hear the ways in which his memories with the instrument are weaponized to whittle him into submission. Toya snaps the gate shut behind him, hand white-knuckled on the cold iron bar. He doesn’t want to hear those ridicules that stem from that annoying contentiousness, not even the clanking of their plates on the scratched dining table or the silence that permeates the room.

“Toya?”

He blinks, that gentle voice luring him out of his thoughts. Toya looks at him, at the worried expression trying not to overflow, and lets go of the gate with an awkward hum. “Sorry, Akito, I...”

“Don’t wanna go in?” Akito asks. The question sits in the air for too many seconds than he’s comfortable with.

Yes, he wants to breathe: to audibly confirm his contempt towards entering that home once again. But all he does is let out a weak, frustrated huff—and even then, Akito still brings himself to smile, however small it may be.

“It’s fine,” Akito says. He doesn’t make the move to continue walking to campus, though, and instead takes the time in their seconds of silence to stare into Toya’s eyes.

Then, abruptly, he speaks again. “How about we skip today?”

Toya blinks, just once this time with a confused look. “…Huh?”

“Well, I mean,” Akito shrugs his shoulders and looks to the distance in embarrassment, “we’ll probably be late anyway, and our uniforms aren’t washed or anything.”

Remaining dumbstruck, Toya looks at Akito’s averted gaze silently until those olive eyes return, uncertain yet honest. They’re so terribly honest that it almost makes Toya’s knees buckle with guilt, yet he manages to stay still, if only a bit weaker now when holding Akito’s gaze. “We can take it easy,” Akito continues with a faint flush on his cheeks.

“Okay,” Toya says hastily, so instinctive that he’s almost frightened by it. The way in which he dives head-first into his impulses is nothing short of terrifying, despite how much he wants to, and he scrunches his eyes when Akito’s little smile doesn’t instantly settle the conflicting emotions.

Rather, they swirl evermore in the pit of his stomach on the way back to Akito’s home, and Toya hates the way in which it’s evolved into a ravenous typhoon. He doesn’t dare look to his side and break the silence held between them—it’s quite hard to do anything but stare at the concrete they tread upon, in fact. It’s not like he would know what to say, in any case; while the silence is suffocating, he doesn’t want to feel the sensation of crawling legs in his throat by recalling the event that just took place.

This is still his problem, not something he can shove onto Akito. No, especially not when Toya’s already burdened him with so much. His lips press into a scowl, aching at every second of gratitude he feels for Akito’s suggestion that he so ignorantly accepted. Perhaps he should have gone into that home, even if he knew it would be for the last time as he’d be unable to step out the moment those termites began their rapid ascent up his legs and over his body. He wouldn’t have to bother Akito with staying another night otherwise, and yet he still cannot imagine himself ever walking back into that house again.

What is he to do now, then? He can’t accept his father’s rationale of buying a new home, but for how much longer can he seek refuge at Akito’s home? His fingers grip at the hem of his blazer. Can he really watch it all come down like it never mattered to him?

He coughs at the question and leaves it unanswered, grateful that Akito does not comment on the sudden noise from his throat.

It’s still silent when Akito leads the way into his home, shutting the door behind them as they take their shoes off by the entrance. Toya steps into the living room and stills, waiting for Akito to take the lead and for him to follow, just as they always do.

“Take whatever clothes you want from my room,” Akito says as he walks over to the staircase. Toya trails behind. “I’ll put our uniforms in the wash.”

The brief walk up the stairs and into Akito’s room is silent. Toya pauses while Akito files through his closet to find some more comfortable clothes and ends up tossing Toya a set regardless, perhaps in response to his immobility. “I’ll change in the bathroom,” he comments before walking back out into the hallway and shutting the bedroom door behind him.

Toya stays there, glancing around the room while stuck in his thoughts. The tiny cracks and holes in the walls are still there, so prevalent despite how infinitesimal they seem, and his eyes scrunch at the sight. He moves so as to keep himself distracted, hoping that the simple act of changing clothes could tear his mind away from the dried patches of paint in the corners, but he only returns once he finishes, unable to tear his eyes away.

He's no carpenter. But is there really no way for him to mend these walls? Even if reconstruction is too great a feat, could he not take a bucket of paint to comfort them? The more he stands there pityingly, in clothes that were given to him in a space that was offered to him, the more the thought of returning home pulses in the back of his mind.

The best paint job he could offer wouldn’t be enough. Toya knows this—knows that he’s taking and taking and never giving, watching as these brittle walls begin to deteriorate around the silent, weightless hand that cannot repair—and the thought is devastatingly cruel. He’s only distracted from its ache when the door creaks open, revealing Akito dressed in his home clothes with his uniform bundled in his hands.

Toya struggles to look his way, and his eyes flicker from him to the walls only once before they lock in place on Akito’s gaze. “I’ll take your uniform,” Akito says, almost too casually, as he inches closer and carefully pries the clothes out of Toya’s frozen hands. “Anything you wanna do for now? We’ve got the whole day.”

Even if the guilt is suffocating, he finds a traitorous smile crawling up his face. It’s disgusting, truly, how quick he’s able to melt in the presence of Akito and drown in the bliss of it.

“Study,” is what Toya responds with. But the true answer is much more selfish, the desire to close this short yet gaping distance between them dying on the bed of his mouth. He knows it will remain unspoken, though, forever hanging in limbo like a newborn bird at the edge of its nest, unable to fly yet unable to flee.

Akito gives him another nod, and nothing else needs to be said. Yet even when they eventually dive into their textbooks and notes—Akito at his desk and Toya at the coffee table with the soft whirring noise of the washing machine being the only sound present—Toya aches at the nothingness. The notes jumble into nonsense and his notes become nothing more than words and symbols, devolving into pencil markings until Toya stops writing altogether. His palms are dry, the wooden pencil scratchy on his skin, and the temperature in the room is colder than he'd like it to be.

He looks up at Akito, who's focused on the notebook in front of him. The brushing of graphite and paper comes and goes in an unorganized symphony, but it is continuous, much unlike Toya who's already stopped playing the song. The temperature doesn't seem to bother him, though, and neither does the silence—so why, then, is Toya so disturbed? Is it simply because he doesn't understand the material of his book? Is he wearing too little layers?

An itch rises on his forearms, goosebumps lining skin as it sends a tingling through his body. He knows why, truthfully—knows why this air has turned so cumbersome and why his skin crawls at the emptiness between them. Ironically, he thinks of the reason why now, with the hairs on his skin at their ends and a faint feeling of little, tiny legs scuttering around him resurfacing. If that infestation never showed up, it would have been enough to continue as is, to let every bitter emotion towards his home be dissolved in the wake of Akito's presence—in his voice, his music, his sight. And yet, like a bitter tempest anomalous in the forecast, the pests have overwhelmed his home and claimed it theirs, and he can no longer ignore them.

He will have to admit his homelessness eventually if he does turn his back from that home, and it'd be worse to admit that to Akito. He'd still be a parasite, unable to live without leeching off the kindness Akito too generously deals him. There is little, if anything, he gives in return, and he can't ask for something as large as a move-in.

And still he teeters between the lines, unable to fly yet unable to flee. Like that bird on the edge of its nest, Toya stays there at the coffee table, ignoring the home which will soon be on its last leg and withholding the hand that begs to reach out, cursed to forever remain here in this undeserved warmth.

He stays immobile there for minutes, perhaps an hour, until the spinning of the washing machine stops. Akito, tearing his eyes off his paper, leaves the room to put their clothes in the dryer, and he comes back as silently as he left. The room returns to stillness, now with the soft clanking of the dryer running downstairs and the inconsistent scratches of writing filling the air, and yet Toya remains there, his pencil abandoned on the table.

The minutes continue. Maybe another hour has gone by, but he has long lost count. By now, though, the writing and scribbling have stopped, and so too has the running of the dryer.

The room now is filled with absolute silence. Toya blinks and flickers his eyes up to where Akito sits on the desk, wondering if he's going to leave and obtain their clothes from the dryer. But Akito is stapled to his seat, eyes pinned to the paper before him. Toya would think that he's simply stuck on another question and, as usual, hesitant of the embarrassment that comes with asking Toya for help, but Akito's textbooks are shut and shoved to the corner of the desk. A new notebook sits before him, thinner than the one he had open before which now hides beneath the textbooks. He watches diligently as Akito moves his hand to write something, but he stops and silently scowls as he retracts his hand, ending right where he started with his wrist hovering centimeters over the page.

Toya remembers that notebook: the one Akito had yesterday. He must have finished his homework—or decided to push it off for another day, as he usually does—and is now busying himself attempting to continue songwriting. Though while the simple act of staring upon Akito's features is enough to disperse all worry, such concern only seems to grow with the way Akito glares into the paper. His hand hastily runs the pencil across the surface, eyebrows furrowed upon reading what he just wrote, and his knuckles turn slightly white against the wooden object in his grasp.

Akito clicks his tongue. The noise is gentle—indecipherable if Toya weren't staring so intently—yet it scrapes against Toya's ear. That frustrated countenance is too painful to witness, so intense that it gets Toya to frown, too. His heart twists into knots; he ignites with the desire to rise from his place at the coffee table and walk to the desk, working side-by-side until the result is one they both smile fondly upon. The white on his knuckles expand the same way they sprout on Akito's own, sharing a desperate turmoil that remains unspoken.

The fire in his stomach burns ever brighter. He yearns for more than finishing whatever song he's working on: more than planning out set itineraries that he knows Akito is ruminating on fervently in his mind. He yearns for touch and sound, to place his hand atop that frozen one above paper and to lower it to the desk, prying the pencil out with care. He'll speak more than simple words of encouragement and absorb the defeated yet grateful huff that would escape Akito's lips, fingers entangling together like a promise. And it would all be a reminder—a reminder for Akito to let go for just a moment, only a moment, and lean on Toya, sharing the burden hidden soundly behind that agitated stare. Such a reminder is all he wishes for, and it can only start with something so simple as reaching his hand out.

But then the tearing of paper rips through the empty atmosphere like thunder, giving Toya a slight jolt. Akito, with a swift motion, has torn out the page of his notebook, hurriedly crumpling the paper and tossing it into the drawer of his desk. The drawer closes as quietly as it can, for perhaps Akito does not want to bother Toya with his studying, and Akito shoots his focus to the next page, now presumably blank.

This, too, is a reminder, though one more bitter on his tongue. No matter how many times he imagines it—imagines taking that disturbed hand into his, turning into a beacon for Akito to rest his poor eyes on to rejuvenate—he knows nothing will ever come about. He will stay in place at the coffee table, contemplating all the things he desires to do yet, with this deprecating feeling flourishing inside, will never be able to. Such thoughts will wither away in the reality of what is: the reality in front of them, the one in which Akito struggles in silence and Toya, in equal stillness, is too small to attempt reaching out. He's too insignificant: too inexperienced, just some runaway prodigy acting off impulse, and even still does he want to leech off the relentless efforts of the one before him. Those efforts lead to a stomach-churning desperation, one which rarely ever peeked through the cracks—but it makes itself known here with that scowl and immobile hand. It's a despised sight, but one Toya cannot hope to mend. Nothing he ever could do would be able to.

Toya slowly pushes his hands against the table's surface, rising to his feet. Akito doesn't notice this, glued to the now-blank paper before him, and Toya does nothing but watch. Akito's hand lowers to the page—then recoils, then scribbles half a sentence before abruptly stopping again. The urge to erase his words is evident by the way Akito's hand twitches, but Toya does nothing more than watch. He's always done nothing but watch and watch: watch as Akito digs himself a hole he cannot climb out of on his own—a hole his hands tear away at, dirtied with muck and blood, towards an exit he doesn't allow himself to perceive. And in Toya's immobility, in the nothingness that he is, all he can do is continue to watch.

If this is all he'll ever amount to, unmoving in the face Akito tangled too deep in an overbearing frustration, then there is no reason for him to stay at all. And while the vision of his home currently under fire kept his eyes avoidant of the matter, he now refuses to look away.

"Akito."

Toya finds the strength, wherever it was, to call his name. Nothing happens—but then, after some brief seconds, Akito blinks, shifting his head over to Toya. The eye contact weighs on him, and for a moment, he contemplates saying something irrelevant to save himself the embarrassment.

But he can't run away anymore. He will face this one way or another, even if it has to be through an ocean of ticklish legs and prickly mandibles.

"I'm going home," Toya whispers, the urge to look anywhere but him bubbling within. But he can't—especially not when the widening of Akito's eyes keeps him locked with guilt.

Akito's hold on the pencil loosens, threatening to hit the wooden desk. "You're going back home?" He repeats, almost breathless. "Like…right now?"

Toya's lips purse. He hates how he still loves that voice—however painful it is to hear it so low and quiet, far from that steady tone Akito usually wields—but he won't let his selfish desires emerge again, stringing him along a path he's far underqualified for. He loves that voice: and for its sake, he cannot sing by it—cannot stand by it—any longer.

"Yes," Toya responds, the loathed word leaking from his mouth and leaving behind a putrid aftertaste.

Akito remains there in silence, but is far from still. His hand finally releases the pencil and sets it atop the desk carelessly while his lips press into a tight frown. His eyes stutter around Toya's face as he searches for something to say and his eyelids, just barely, scrunch. But being able to notice all of that is not some sign that he is fit to be Akito's partner. Far from it. The fact that it has taken Toya this long to come to a decision is proof of that—proof of how little he actually measures up to the indomitable aspirations of the one before him. Their shared dream was, in fact, nothing more than a cheap excuse to look away from the house which is no longer ignorable, and he refuses to keep using Akito like this any longer.

"You," Akito starts, then stops, waiting until his eyes can meet with Toya's again. "But you didn't wanna go home earlier, did you? Then why are you going back now?"

"I…" Toya trails off, shrinking into himself. "There's no reason."

"No reason?" Akito's eyebrow twitches at the response. "There's no reason why you want to go back home?"

"Yes."

"Then why did you ask to stay over?"

Toya looks to the floor, unable to maintain the weight of their eye contact. "I don't know."

"You don't know?" Akito asks, less in mockery than out of worry as he stands from the desk chair. "I'm not buying it. There's a reason you don't wanna go back home. I know how your father is, but this…this is different, isn't it?"

Toya exhales a shaky breath. It does little to ease the tension keeping him riled, and yet again does he feel those tiny legs trail a familiar path on his skin. It's agonizing to continue this conversation, but it's even more crushing to continue being a weight on Akito's ankle, holding him from the dream he speaks so fondly of.

Even if it hurts, he can't keep being a thorn in Akito's side. It's far from what he deserves, and such exclusion is exactly what Toya ought to have done from the beginning.

"It's fine, really," Toya says with a dry edge to his tone. He looks up a little to the small cracks lining the wall and feels his body flinch at the sight.

Akito takes a single step forward. The motion begs Toya to look up and at the one he cherishes, but the frown Akito's face has certainly contorted into would be too damning. "Then look at me," Akito replies. "Look at me and tell me you want to go back home."

Painfully, Toya trails his head up and locks eyes with Akito once more. Akito's eyes are focused on him, giving him the world and more even against their slight quivering, yet Toya's never able to do the same. It's sickening how he still adores this look, even though it's far from ideal.

"I'm going back home," Toya says. Akito's lips purse at the response.

"So you don't want to go back, do you?"

"No, I," Toya hesitates, tempted to look elsewhere once again and hide himself away from this torturous feeling—to run away just as he always does. "I want to go back home."

He says it as firmly as he can, but he knows that his insecurities still leak through for Akito to witness. He stares into those olive eyes that hold back several conflicting emotions, wishing that, for just one last time, he could see them upturn in that shimmering smile. But instead, and because he can no longer let his desires ruin Akito's life, he gets a small sigh that nearly knocks all the wind out his lungs. "Okay," Akito breathes.

But before Toya could ask where his uniform was or where he could return his borrowed clothes, a feeble means of initiating unfortunate departure, Akito breaks the silence and says, "But stay for tonight."

Akito now has a small smile on his face, but it's far from the relieving sight he always knew. It's wistful and distant, separating them to two planes Toya knows that he can never cross again, and Toya stings at knowing he caused this. It was his decision to run away to that street that day, his decision to stay by Akito's side—and now he has to put everything back where they belong lest he destroy Akito's future.

"Okay," Toya eventually replies, equally as quiet. The word aches as it leaves his throat, hanging awkwardly in the air between them, and neither of them have the heart to move. Perhaps it would be better for Toya to stand firm on his decision and walk away now, returning the two of them to the way they should be. But if Akito wants him to stay for just tonight, then he'd never deny him such a thing—and if that sentiment is only a cover for the cowardice brewing within him, consistently making him avert his eyes from that home on its last legs, then even that's okay, too.

The rest of the day passes in tense mundanity. Akito walks out of the room to get the clothes from the dryer, neatly folding Toya's for his departure tomorrow. Toya goes back to his spot on the coffee table, still unable to focus on his work yet posing as if he's not, and Akito, too, walks back to his desk to continue his songwriting.

Toya doesn't need to look up to know that there is still nothing written on that page—it's already noted by the piercing silence. Even when the faint sound of scribbles wisps into the air, it stops as quickly as it started and dissolves into another patch of quietness. From seconds to minutes and minutes to hours, they remain there in the crushing silence for the rest of their off day.

The lunch they share is spent quietly. The dinner they share is spent quietly. And, when the sun begins its departure, making way for the moonlight and its company, they freshen themselves up and get ready for bed quietly.

Toya, while in the bathroom after Akito had finished brushing his teeth, looks at himself in the mirror. Faint shadows line beneath his eyes, no doubt due to the immense stress that's been beating at his lungs, and he dons no certain kind of expression. But he won't have to worry anymore—won't have to linger on the thought of holding Akito down any further—because tonight is his last night here. His last night bathing in a petulant attempt at what he would have called "freedom."

There is no freedom for him, truthfully. Not for the one that has wasted so much time on the fence and taking down the high-soaring eagle with him. He brushes his teeth as he tosses over his guilt and, with a slight frown as he rinses out the minty residue, returns to Akito's room.

The room is darker now, with the curtains pulled to shun away the remaining light of the sunset. Akito already lays in the bed, facing the wall with eyes closed. He must already be asleep, especially from all the work he'd put into songwriting for today. Toya tenses as he draws closer to the bed, footsteps light like he's treading on the thinnest ice, and he stops just before the edge.

He fears he may wake Akito with the creak of the mattress as he climbs on. It's still unfair of him—for him to sleep next to a star so bright when he is nothing more than the darkness of space. He knows, though, that he'd upset Akito more by sleeping on the floor, and he'd hate to see that stressed look on his face in the morning. So, in defeat, Toya recedes and gently makes his way onto the bed.

For now, all that remains is darkness. Toya faces the rest of the room, curling into himself and shutting his eyes tight. He blocks out the soothing bedding he lies upon and the gentle blanket that he dares not cover himself fully with, left to shield only half his body. He blocks out whatever objects he could pick out from the dark room. He blocks out the holes in the walls that he knows are still staring into him mercilessly, causing his skin to run cold. He just has to wait until morning—and when the sun rises, he will be gone. He will return to that termite-infested home like he was meant to, no longer being an obstruction to the one he loves most.

He just has to wait until morning. And even though he stays awake against his closed eyes, he's more than content with playing this dreadful waiting game. It's what he deserves.

Until he feels something new around his torso, that is. He jolts at the sensation as it snakes around his waist, cold in its course even on the outside of Toya's clothes. Eventually, they slot in place, holding him in a devastating silence.

He knows this feeling despite how new it is. His eyes open, but he doesn't look anywhere but the darkness before him. The hands that have grabbed onto his waist spread their frost throughout his body, keeping him frozen. He knows it's best if he tore those hands away, isolating himself on this end of the bed he shouldn't even be on until the sun breaks out, but Toya, against the adamant cold, does not move.

"Hey," a voice—that voice, that calm, tired voice lacquered in a tenderness Toya does not deserve—draws out behind him. "When are you leaving tomorrow?"

Toya hums. Everything is still, yet he struggles to keep his breathing controlled. "I don't know," he eventually whispers back, hesitant as his words die in the shadows surrounding them. Akito doesn't respond, leaving them in a tense silence—as if their quietness before already wasn't snipping at his heartstrings. Still, though, to fill the air with something, Toya follows up his comment with a short, "I can't stay here forever."

It's a horrible thing to say. The words roll off his tongue like a bitter poison, leaving an animus trail in their wake. It's tantalizing and disgustingly ironic how he speaks of the very thing he desires the most—to stay here forever and bask in the light that Akito radiates, to follow him to the ends of the Earth and leave everything he once knew behind—yet there is no saving him now: if there was ever any way to do so in the first place. This was bound to happen from the beginning: if it wasn't now, it would be then. If there is a choice to be made, it has to be this one: for Akito to achieve his dreams with no restrictions and Toya to submit to that piano as he was born to. For the better of both of them, and for their happiness, Toya has to leave tomorrow morning.

His words become stale as the seconds pass silently, where both of them have yet to distill the stiff atmosphere between them. But finally—and anxiously, Toya can tell—Akito finally mumbles, "I would do that for you, y'know?"

The hands around his waist flinch. "If you wanted," Akito softly adds, and the two return to nothingness. Toya feels the urge to writhe in Akito's grasp, however, where both thoughts of submitting to the embrace and rejecting it fight in his mind. Neither have yet to win the battle, though, so Toya simply remains there, suffering in a tsunami of oil and water while looking into the silence, his face scrunching in agony.

He does want it. He so terribly does, and all his desires suddenly come bubbling in his stomach, no longer a soft simmer he can forcibly contain. There is no more he can do, however; indulging in these thoughts would only lead to ruin, and although the thought of returning home is even less comforting, he's already made his choice.

He can't go back on it. Not when he's just a parasite here, in this home that hides its dents and imperfections, and certainly not by the side of one that deserves to soar far higher than Toya ever should. Looking at Akito on eye-level was already a sin, and this is the only way Toya knows how to repent.

"I can't," Toya mutters through a dry, tight throat.

The hands around his waist tighten just a little. Toya releases a stressed yet soft breath from his mouth at such a minuscule action.

"Why?" Akito asks.

"Your walls are breaking," Toya whispers back.

"…Huh?"

"There's a few holes," he continues. "Some of the paint is peeling. There are cracks in a few spots and some of the doors are chipped at the bottom."

The hands shift. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"That I can't stay here. I…" Toya curls into himself further. "I don't know how to fix it, Akito."

The hands shift again with a squeeze. In the silence between them, Toya feels how they gradually pull at him until a cold weight presses against his back. It's Akito, certainly, but the knowledge of this doesn't provide any comfort; instead, Toya now is obsessed with how Akito buries his head in the back of Toya's neck, rustling against his skin like some futile attempt to get closer. Toya's face flushes, and yet he remains still, certain that if he were to move now, he'd reciprocate the embrace and never leave it, pushing into Akito with such desperation that they'd merge into one and become inseparable—a fate Toya is far from averse to, if they were so allowed.

But they aren't allowed, and because they aren't, Toya keeps still. A warm, light breath lines his neck as Akito whispers, "I don't expect you to, Toya."

The words barely make themselves known, spoken in a tone too hushed. They linger on his neck and start a trail throughout his body, defrosting the lonely chill he'd encased himself in on the edge of the bed. They leave Toya's body to tremble, just slightly, and his hand digs into the bedsheets below—the comfortable bedsheets that Toya still feels like an outlier in, relishing in a sensation he is not allowed to have. He still cannot close his eyes and distract himself with the darkness; his mind is still at odds between the gentle grasp Akito holds him in and the revolting knowledge that he shouldn't be here.

His nails claw deeper into the sheets. Is it really okay for him to indulge in this final night, the last night he'll spend with Akito? If Akito doesn't expect him to repair those walls, then is it alright if he can cherish this for only one night without guilt rotting away at him?

Toya releases the sheets and, still quivering, slowly brings his hand down, hovering over the spot where Akito's hands cup around him.

He can't. His decision has already, and finally, been made; he has to remind himself of this constantly—even if it threatens tears to prick at the ends of his eyes—so that he does not cross a line he cannot return from. Akito deserves more than a fake like him—some layabout that only uses Akito's music as a means to run away. And even if Akito doesn't expect Toya to repair those deteriorating walls, it's impossible for Toya to stay and soak up all this kindness without being able to return it.

He is a coward. And Akito doesn't need cowards like him stepping in his way. Toya's hands drop back onto the mattress, abandoned, and he finally shuts his eyes.

"I'm sorry," is all Toya can manage to mumble.

Silence envelopes them for a moment until Akito, too, mutters a response.

"Will you come back?"

Toya flinches. "Yes."

The hands on his waist grip tighter. Akito shifts even closer, tangling their legs together as if to cage him in. "What makes you so sure?"

Toya brings his hands closer to himself. Akito holds him too dearly, too passionately for such a parasitic freeloader, and even if Akito's guttural voice aches him, he knows this is for the best. It's better this way—for Akito to achieve that dream he speaks of with the most scintillating passion in his eyes, reflecting a fire with embers so authentic and beautiful it gets Toya utterly lost within them, there is no need for dead weight.

Still, as he shivers, the image of those pests returns. They walk in arbitrary patterns across his skin until he freezes, the warmth of Akito no longer able to distract him. Even if that home may not be there when he leaves, and even if it hurts to swim in this ocean of termites, he can't restrict Akito any further.

His decision has already been made. And it's better this way.

"Don't worry," Toya says against the darkness, voice so weak it barely comes out at all. "It's not much of an issue, anyway."

Akito twitches, and they return to silence. With they way he breathes steadily on his skin, Toya figures Akito is drifting off to sleep. The proximity keeps Toya awake, however, for whatever guilty seconds it can before he forcibly squeezes his eyes tighter, blocking out the room he already can't see and hoping the sensation of Akito's lips lingering on his skin will fade out with it.

It takes clenched teeth piercing his gums and nails digging into his palms to even begin falling asleep. Somewhere, though, he thinks it would be best if he never woke up again—for at least he'd still be in these tender arms when he dies, leaving nothing but a trail of misery in his wake until he is nothing more than an idle thought. And when he eventually disappears from memory, he hopes that Akito could achieve what it is that he adores, finally with nothing to restrict him.

His consciousness fades as a hard shiver rocks his body. Though he runs cold, he does not deserve to see the sunrise, and the crawling pests that barge into his dreams are nothing short of a harrowing, apt reminder.

Chapter Text

The house is swarmed. Nothing is as it once was.

The sunrise melts into the room, breathing life into the orange walls. The light peers into Toya's eyes and he stirs, rubbing at them until they groggily peek around. Through the blurriness, Toya doesn't see much of anything but light, and he almost closes his eyes just to get another few minutes of rest before getting out of this delicate bed.

But he knows what this means—what the early birdsong and the faint smell of morning grass seeping through the window signals. So, without further hesitation and through his opaque sight, Toya begins to rise from the bed.

He's missing a certain warmth around his waist. When he looks over, his eyes fall upon Akito curled into his end of the bed, arms and legs retracted into himself. Only his lower half is covered in blankets, and his arms quietly quiver against the bedding.

Toya reaches out an arm—and stops. Someone with warmer hands will come along to lift him, he's sure. Toya's wintry and dull fingers do more harm than good, so he lowers his hand as if he never raised it at all and hangs his legs over the edge of the bed.

He rises to his feet. His eyes have adjusted well to the room now, but he takes no moment to let it absorb him. In a lethargic tiptoe, he creeps over to where Akito left his school uniform and leaves the room, heading for the bathroom.

When he enters, he doesn't look into the mirror. There's nothing there that he would want to look at, so he changes with his eyes glued to the floor and returns to the bedroom, as quietly as he left, and leaves Akito's spare clothes on the coffee table. They're folded as neatly as Toya could—but maybe if he were more than incompetent, he'd wash the clothes himself and hang them up so Akito wouldn't go through the trouble alone. But since this is the best he can do, since it is all he can do, he leaves it on that table and makes his way to the door.

The mattress creaks. Toya freezes, hand hovering over the doorknob, and slowly looks over his shoulder.

Akito is sitting up on the bed now, hair jumbled into a tangled mess with tired, squinted eyes. Even through sleep's grasp, Akito stares at Toya with this wistful gaze—one that begs him for more than Toya is able to offer.

It's still. Toya can't bear the silence, though, and he croaks a weak, "Goodbye, Akito."

His words shake and crumble as they fall from his lips. But even in this moment where his repugnant heart is cut open, Akito still finds a little smile to show him.

"Yeah. See ya," Akito responds. His voice is equally as chipped and scratchy, but Toya has no right or ability to mend it. He's already overstayed his welcome.

Toya returns to the doorknob and, finally, leaves the room. He makes way for the front door, sliding on his shoes and exiting the home without so much as a look back.

If he does even that, there is a chance he will return. He won't risk that—won't soak in the comforting wind that is Akito's presence any longer. All he needs to do now is simple: to move, and to go back home.

The walk back to his house is brief. He spends no time thinking about the pleasing comfort of his uniform as it rubs against his skin, having now been washed. His eyes are pinned to the concrete trail he treads upon, only looking up when he opens the gate to the yard and walks up to the front door.

The outside of the home remains unchanged; when he opens the door, though, he knows that will no longer be the case. But with this as his only home to return to, he must continue, and so he opens the doorknob and stares into the living room.

The surfaces of his home lie under a thick blanket of scribbled waves of termites, all pushing past one another with haste as they roam about their new domain. The living room table leans on the floor half-eaten and all other remaining pieces of furniture are in a similar state. The shelf has collapsed, the couch has holes, the lighting is dim from the swarm of termites encasing the glass, and the walls are further whittling away at their fury.

Toya's hand trembles. He shakes in his spot before the door as he stares at the swarm of bugs and he thinks—he doesn't think at all. His mind turns completely white as he steps into the house, closing the door behind him.

The termites waste no time in starting their expedition, starting a trail up his shoes. A few are quick and adamant enough to squirm and poke their way into his shoes and against his socks, but Toya isn't rude; he knows to take his shoes off by the door. He shuts his eyes as he carefully removes one foot from his shoe, stepping onto the floor made of these vile creatures. They crunch beneath the weight, some of them escaping to scratch their nubby legs on his sock and follow the crowd that begins ascending his ankle. When he removes the other shoe, the process again starts there.

His heart winds up, but he pushes past the tightening and continues to move, taking heavy, paced steps towards the stairs. They've certainly conquered the rest of the house, and yet Toya's room is beyond the staircase, so he must ascend. There is something in his room he ought to be doing, after all.

Toya treads up the stairs, the crunching of termites creating a grotesque cacophony as he makes his way to the second floor. The ones that have latched onto his body swirl around beneath his clothing and continue their journey upwards to his knee. He shivers as they saunter up his body, but he can do nothing more than approach his bedroom.

His room, too, is swarmed with these pests. His chair has been devoured, his bed is in tatters, and the termites crawling over the windows bar the sunlight from pouring into the room, only allowing the smallest slivers to peek through. Perhaps he should be thankful; the sunlight would be too blinding on his eyes, anyways.

He closes the door behind him once he enters, continuing his stride towards the bench on the far end of the room. Though covered in termites, the bench still stands—and so does the object before it, too, veiled behind a blue curtain. But before anything else, he walks over to his desk, taking up a sticky note and pen covered with termites. Then, after a moment's pause to stare deep into the blue curtains overrun by termites, he finally takes his seat on that bench.

He crushes the bugs beneath him, feeling the horrid bumps their corpses create as he takes the note and pen to his thigh. With a trembling hand, he writes another note before the scuttering termites can invade the space beyond his knee, keeping it harshly pressed upon his thigh. His hands, still weak and shivering with a few stray bugs wandering about his knuckles, move to push aside the blue curtains standing before him, revealing the instrument behind.

The termites, too, have dominated the piano, roaming through every crack and crevice of the old thing. Toya lands both hands atop the keys, against the infestation, with fingers apart as if to begin again what it is he should not have run from in the first place.

Yet he remains a statue there, with fingers featherlight on the keys that are obstructed by the swarm. He cannot move, nor can he play a single note—still, after all this time, after all this rumination and torment, he still cannot play a single note. And yet he cannot move from this bench, so he simply remains, letting the termites continue their relentless exploration.

They move from the keys to his hands, then to his forearms. Some divide and conquer, others move as a group—there is no structure to their advancement. They draw crazed patterns on his skin, prickly legs poking with their pattering, and Toya forces his eyes shut.

He cannot keep them out of his mind, however, as much as he wants to keep them from his sight. They are unforgiving in their move, continuing their malicious march until they break out onto his torso, his lower half already being drowned in a sea of them.

They're repulsive. They squirm atop his skin like a ghostly breath: cold and unnerving, too close for comfort as they make their way up. A few of them that started from his arms sprawl out across his chest, holding a harrowing reunion with those still trailing up his waist. He takes a short breath from his mouth, then immediately shuts it. Perhaps a few notes would do his mind some good.

Yet even though it could save him, he remains still. The sharp note of the aged piano suddenly ringing into the air could startle the invasive crowd, scaring them off and out of the house. He could keep it that way so long as he continued to play: to rise and rise under a sharp, watchful eye until he no longer remembers the touch of these unsightly pests—until he no longer remembers why they emerged in the first place. He would not bat an eye to the damaged home that cannot be repaired; all that would matter then is how the keys sounded against his calloused fingertips, devoid of warmth yet full of skill. Yet even though this could save him, he remains still.

It is too straining to even think of himself moving, much less imagining the keys he would play. So he doesn't. He doesn't think at all, opening his eyes to look upon the termites once more.

The have scaled his chest and are making their way up his neck. They begin prodding at his skin with their hungry mandibles and tearing tiny holes in parts of his uniform.

His pupils trail over to the note attached to his thigh. They have already started feasting on the piece of paper—what else? There is no one here willing to read it, despite how the color stands out against the dark background of his uniform pants, begging to be acknowledged by someone other than the hand which wrote it. Yet Toya abandons it and leaves it to die, watching as the termites gnaw at the pitiful attempt of reconciliation.

He, though, is not free from their brutal starvation. As they scale upwards beneath his chin and make way for his face, they pinch and bite, feverish as they rummage against the large crowd of each other. He feels spots of red sprouting across his body at their bites, the itchy sensation seeping further into him. Toya knows there is no end to their assault, no matter if he tries to close his eyes or not, and he shudders another fearful breath from his mouth.

But the termites have already begun scaling his face, and now they file into Toya's mouth once it opens, exploring his gums and teeth. He jerks, but does not move. He doesn't want to close his jaw and taste the puss that oozes from their little bodies or feel the way they crunch between his teeth, leaving permanent stains. He's defeated under their despotic hunt, left stilled on the bench while they continue trailing up his face and gnawing at his skin.

One of them makes its way onto his eye. Toya twitches and blinks, but it rolls to the back of his eyelid, squirming beneath the unseen space and searing the back of his eye. He chokes; a few of the bugs in his mouth spew out his mouth, but it is not enough to stop the rest from swarming in. As they cover his face, another flood of them start trailing the space of his eye, obscuring whatever vision he had left. Toya's eyelids flinch, threatening to close—yet they remain open, just barely, where the termites are able to further poke their way beneath the muscle and invade the back of his eye.

He is scorching on all ends, ignited with a ruthless fire that devours him like how the termites are devouring him. They chew at his skin with fervor, attempting to break in and remaining restless until they do. Some of them scour other possible entrances, like those that have made their way into his ear and are traveling through the canal. Some of them on his hands start pushing against his fingernails, squeezing their way beneath as they try to pop each nail open. A few in his mouth start trailing down his throat—and he chokes again, harsher this time, but in its dryness only a few termites fly from the rough exhalation. The itch they leave behind as they saunter down his throat is pure agony: a hellscape that he sits through so obediently after being subdued.

They continue their gluttonous reign. In his hair, in his ears, in his throat, in his eyes—they stop at nothing in their exploration, and soon they will trail into his lungs and slash at the thin muscles there, compressing them until he can no longer breathe. Such a thing is already difficult as it is, for they are also inside his nose, swirling around the interior and leaving him to take whispered, gasped breaths from his mouth. Inhaling only drags more of them down, but by now he knows it was only a matter of time before they reached their destination. There is nothing he can do to stop this.

The termites on his hands have cracked open some of his fingernails. Blood begins to trickle down from the mess, and in the pool of it, the perpetrators push past the barrier and beneath his skin. Robbed of all strength, Toya still does not move, feeling the bugs crawl their way into his flesh and dig their teeth into his muscles and veins, branding swollen infections on his insides. But even if Toya could move, he must again remind himself that this was a natural. They must have always been bubbling beneath the drywall, waiting to gradually dominate the house and make their presence known from the beginning. But with the intimacy they share now, termites traveling on top of and inside of him, he knows these beings better now. Their agony and turmoil, their haste and impulsivity—they are so alike, and now Toya has a more visceral reminder of this with the way they permanently etch these emotions into his muscles as they crawl and bite beneath his skin.

Toya's eyes ache as they remain open, more visitors coming to invade his eyes. His breathing is harsh, heavier, hesitant to swallow more bugs into his throat, and yet he already feels them dropping into his lungs and the pit of his stomach. They chew at his arms and his organs. He's feeling quite tired.

Then a knock on the door resonates throughout the quiet room. It's softened against the bugs piling in his ear, and when two more knocks sound, it drowns out against the crowd of scuttering of bugs pushing pash each other. Three more knocks come from the door, now banging on the pest-covered wood, but the sounds are still registered as just light tappings. Then it returns to silence—to the sound of packed termites racing into his ear—and is again left alone with these miniature, vicious reflections.

Perhaps that knocking was just his imagination: a feeble thought his mind made up to convince himself that someone wanted to look into his room and save him from this terrorizing onslaught. But the thought matters little when an echoing ache pulsates within his body against the ravenous mandibles and wandering legs, and he again thinks of nothing.

They bite, they claw, they chew. They break him down, piece by piece, bite by bite, until the two become one as they always have been, sitting before this old piano in this rotting, brittle house.

And still, Toya could not play even a single note.

Chapter Text

The house collapses, and nothing remains.