Chapter Text
The whole thing is Miya’s idea.
You’d think that Reki would know better than to listen to thirteen year olds, by now. And yet.
The little gremlin at his left lets out a low, appreciative whistle at the poor excuse of a house in front of them that looks like it’s been abandoned for decades.
(Probably because it has been abandoned for decades, but that’s not the point.)
Reki doesn’t know why he’s so pleased. There is nothing good about this.
Miya doesn’t seem to agree. “If there aren’t any ghosts here,” he says, never taking his eyes away, “I don’t think there are anywhere.”
Reki stifles a flinch at the g word. Funny. He was just thinking the same thing. (And by funny, he means whatever the opposite of that is.) “Where did you even find this place?” He asks, because he likes to keep track of his enemies.
Miya raises his phone and snaps a picture of the front of the decrepit building. Since, obviously, it’s a great idea to document the evidence of your impending breaking and entering target. Amateur. “Google,” he says proudly.
Too proudly. Reki wants to throttle him.
Langa is, of course, not paying attention to either of them. He’s far too entranced craning his neck, peering through the jet black bars of iron serving as the only defense between them, and the thing in front of them that’s the cross between a rundown shack and a real estate agent’s worst nightmare.
Figures. It’s not like Reki had expected help, (though that would have been nice) but it’s still rude. Langa’s half the reason he’s in this mess!
…
…
Okay so it’s not like he knows that but! Still! It’s the principle of the matter!
It’s just. He’d looked interested when Miya had first planted the seeds of his evil, harebrained scheme, and it’s so rare for things to actually capture Langa’s attention for more than a few minutes. It was obvious to anyone with a working pair of eyes that he was going to agree to tag along, and what was Reki supposed to do? Sit at home?
(God he wishes he was at home right now.)
He’d meant to say thanks, but no thanks, not a chance in hell actually, but then Langa had shot him the pleading look. The lethal one. With the face and the pout and the sun setting behind him lighting up his hair like a goddamn halo, and. Yeah.
Pretty boy. Pretty eyes. Reki never stood a chance.
So. Here he is. Not at home curled up with his playlist and his sketchbook, (and ideally- no, he’s not saying that). Because why would he choose that over tromping miles past the edge of town to play off-brand ghostbuster? His legs still burn from the ride over. His arm tightens around the board tucked under it, and this is as close as it will be getting to the gate, thank you very much. He will not have his baby tainted by this awful aura.
A breeze ruffles through the overgrown grass. The biting chill nips so deeply into the hem of his jeans that, at first, he doesn’t notice the thin and delicate brush of something curling around his ankle.
Then he notices.
His pulse screeches to a halt and he yelps, wrenching himself away from the touch and clawing his fingers into the fabric of Langa’s shirt. Then another fluttering gust sweeps past, drawing the overgrown blades of grass into a wavering dance, and Reki realizes he might have, perhaps, overreacted a bit.
Grass. It was the grass.
He repeats the reassurance until the ache of his shout dulls to the more bearable scratch of dry cotton in his throat. And then again until his heart feels less like a hummingbird on steroids.
It’s fine.
It’s fine.
The vibe is starting to get to him a bit, that’s all. The sun is also inching, creeping its way below the cloudy horizon. That’s why Reki’s cold. No other reason. He is not scared.
(Miya lets out a sigh and the unexpected sound nearly makes Reki jump out of his skin.)
“I knew we shouldn’t have brought him,” Miya mutters crossly.
It’s quiet. Kind of fucked, though. Reki does have ears.
Langa finally stops ogling the bane of Reki’s existence (other than Miya) long enough to give the kid a sour look. Finally, some solidarity. “Miya,” he says, a touch sharp in clear warning.
Reki’s heart does that weird, inconvenient melting butter thing it does when Langa like. Cares about him. It’s still a wild concept. He thinks about kissing Langa’s cheek. He doesn’t actually do it, but he thinks about it. Maybe later. If Langa keeps being nice.
Miya certainly wouldn’t know anything about being nice. “What?” He snips, defensive. “You know how he gets with this stuff. He’s totally gonna crap his pants, and we haven’t even gone in, yet,” he complains.
Langa bites his lip. (Reki’s heart trips far harder than necessary at such an unremarkable action. So. Good to know that can still happen when he’s facing the gates of hell.) When he catches Reki looking at him out of the corner of his eye, he looks away.
Reki allows himself exactly two seconds to sink into the depths of complete and utter betrayal. It stings. More than it should.
Coward. He was wrong. They both suck.
If Reki wasn’t busy trying to make his legs stand without shaking, he’d use them to hop on his board and leave. If they apparently knew he was going to be such a dreadful inconvenience, they shouldn’t have bothered dragging him along. He does not need this.
“In case you haven’t noticed, you haven’t gone in yet, either,” Reki points out, a bit more sharp bitterness than he’d intended bleeding from his wounded pride into his voice like bleach.
Green eyes widen a smidge at the sudden venom. Big as saucers and it makes him look so young. (Because he is young. Shit. He may be annoying, but he’s still a kid.
But it’s Langa’s eyes, no longer curious but focused and knowing, that burn shame into the slimy thing that had been trying to sliver its way around Reki’s neck until it dies. The flare of anger cools as quickly as it came.
Shit. Abort. Chill the hell out, Kyan. That was an eleven. He needs to bring it back down to like. A five, or something. He takes a breath. Holds it. Lets it out.
(He still hates this, but that’s not important.)
“Let's just get this over with,” he grumbles, taking the ugly feelings and grinding them into the dirt where they belong as he marches up to the wrought iron gate standing between him and several of his worst nightmares. The spear-tipped tops spike into the ever-dimming twilight, but the looming darkness doesn’t hide the reddish hue of rust dusted over the pointy death traps. Lovely. He grits his teeth as he wraps his fingers around the bars.
Fuck all of this. Honestly, the things he does for his people.
It’s not an easy climb, but, admittedly, it’s not much worse than hopping the gate to the skatepark ‘after hours’. (A ridiculous notion in and of itself. You can’t close a skatepark. Idiots.) The dirt is dry, hard, and cracked under his feet when he drops down to it. He brushes the rust clinging to the grooves of his palms onto his shorts and does his best not to look behind him while he waits. Alone. By himself. With the wind whispering through the trees and the house at his back and the-
Yeah, not thinking about that.
Miya’s next. He scurries up the metal like a squirrel and lands silently on the tips of his toes over the patch of dead, seared grass to Reki’s left. Because of course he does. Ugh.
Then it’s Langa’s turn, and it’s… a less graceful procession. By a lot. He makes it to the top of the fence fine, but his hand slips while he’s inching his way towards the ground. Unfortunately, despite popular belief, he can’t literally defy gravity and, well. It’s not as bad as the first time he tried. Hopefully, his knees won’t hurt too much, tomorrow. One day he’ll get the hang of it.
Reki allows himself a single breath of relief now that his two human shields are back in arm's reach. It lasts up until Miya starts rifling through the bag resting against his back and draws a flashlight out of its depths.
A click. Nothing. Then a small, sharp beam of light jets out to cut through the shadows growing steadily stronger as the sun slips further beneath the sky.
Reki almost preferred the blanket of darkness. Because now it’s unavoidable, the way his eyes follow the thin string of illumination as it mercilessly uncovers the tiny, broken puzzle pieces of the picture they hadn’t seen from the other side.
(Pieces that would have been better off staying hidden, if you ask Reki.)
(Nobody asked Reki.)
Worn stone. Chipped brick. Bruised concrete that’s thinned and crumbled in places under years of neglect and the weight of being forgotten. Time has decayed, distorted the bits of wood that haven’t rotted away yet, leaving the siding that remains warped. Wrong. Any chance of getting a glimpse inside is blocked by the soggy slabs of plywood nailed behind the shattered windows.
Yeah. It’s super inviting.
Yet Miya appraises the image with the scrutiny of a jewel maker, and the last of Reki’s hopes and dreams of escaping shrivel and die when his lips quirk in approval.
Langa’s eyes rove across the weathered brick like it’s a map that needs to be studied; sapphire shining in captivated fascination. Because he is a traitor.
Reki is reminded that he is the only sane one, here. A testament to how low the bar truly is. This does not bode well for any of them.
“Not bad,” Miya allows.
Reki disagrees. Vehemently.
Then Miya’s shoulders square with purpose, the way they do when he’s about to put someone through a particularly hellish training session. (Usually, Reki.) “Come on,” he orders, ever the drill Sergeant. “Getting here took longer than I thought, so we need to go before our visibility is more fucked than it already is. We aren’t going to have much time,” he says, curled in disappointed annoyance.
How devastating. Really. Reki could cry.
Miya makes his way through the path to the entrance, once perhaps neat and pristine, now stained like yellow teeth. Half buried under pounds and pounds of snarled tangles of vines and weeds. The squelch of leaves squishing under his shoes settles, queasy, into Reki’s stomach.
Reki tries not to think about the nausea curling around the lining in his throat. (He’s trying not to think about a lot of things, right now. It’s usually easier, for him.) “Hey,” he says, before he can stop himself. “Why do you get to hold the flashlight?”
Miya stops walking. His foot lands on a twig. The snap echoes through the air like the moment before a boom of thunder. Reki feels it in his chest. He pitches his irritated gaze over his shoulder, the way he might at a strikingly swollen slug. (So, pretty much the way he always looks at him.)
It’s the only warning Reki gets before the cheap tube of plastic is being thrown at him. He catches it right before it takes out his eye. Rude. He needs those.
Miya scowls, like he’s disappointed he didn’t manage to maim Reki. (He probably is. Tough shit. Greater than him have tried.) He jerks his head back towards the house. It’s only a little funny watching him seethe. “Take it. But if you want the flashlight so bad, that means you can go first.”
And the tiny thrill of victory Reki had been relishing in flickers out like a candle.
Son of a bitch.
He's been tricked. Duped. He quickly debates the pros and cons of throwing the stupid thing right back against the crux of Miya’s insufferable skull. (Pros: he doesn’t have to go first. Cons: Dark. Also, Miya might kill him. Decisions, decisions.)
The verdict is still out when the first genuine attempt on his life of the night is made.
“Hey, Reki,” Langa whispers from behind him. “Look over here.”
Reki looks. Mistake number one. (And also two and three.) “Yeah?” He asks, not really paying attention. Mistake number four. “What is it-?”
The rest of his question fizzles into surprised, staticky shock between the hand curling around the back of his neck, pulling him closer, and the other pair of lips slotting against his own.
The air in Reki’s lungs freezes in the middle of an exhale. The sharpness of the stillness pricks like a thousand needles. His heart does not beat for one second.
Two seconds.
Three.
By the time his system reboot is successfully completed and he processes that Langa did, in fact, pull that shit, Langa is backing away.
Reki finishes his exhale in a vague, shaky puff that’s only slightly less pathetic than a shudder. The faint pressure lingering on his lips is the only proof that he didn’t imagine it.
Langa (who is not only Reki’s boyfriend, but also the biggest hazard to his health since the day he first picked up a skateboard) winks; entirely too smug.
Reki’s Near Death Experiences Counter increases. Unfortunate. Belatedly, he remembers that they are not alone, and his head whips in Miya’s direction so fast he can already feel a twinge promising pain in his neck later settling at the base of his skull.
Luckily, Miya isn’t paying attention to them. (Thank fuck. That is not something Reki’s prepared to deal with, yet.)
Reki breathes out a sigh of relief that feels kind of like a fish trying to breathe out of water. Then he elbows Langa in the ribs.
This only makes Langa laugh, because he is actually a menace to society (and Reki, specifically) so Reki does it again. Just for the sheer audacity.
(This is not the first time something like this has happened since he and Langa started dating. It probably won’t be the last. Reki hasn’t known peace in weeks. It’s great.)
“Cut it out,” Reki hisses, silently begging the light from the orangey sunset's glow as it slips into twilight to cover up the heat he can feel settling over his cheeks.
Look. It’s not that they’re hiding it (cause they’re not; that would be lame) but it’s… new. Ish. They’re supposed to be keeping it lowkey.
(Pro tip: Langa sucks at lowkey.)
“Cut what out?” Langa asks faux innocently.
Reki considers kicking him in the shin. It feels justified. Before he can make up his mind, though, Langa has already smartly stepped out of range and started towards the dilapidated stack of twigs Miya wants to explore for god knows what reason. There’s a spring in his step. Because he is evil. He’s twirling the flashlight between his fingers.
Damn, he’s good. Reki hadn’t even noticed it being slipped out of his hand. But also, dirty trick.
“I’ll go first,” Langa says.
Miya doesn’t object, aside from a huff and an oddly familiar roll of his eyes. He’s been spending too much time around Koyomi. This is displeasing for many reasons. Reki will have to remedy it.
(Presuming he survives, of course.)
Against all of his better judgment (which is not saying much, honestly) Reki follows.
It’s like walking with iron bound to his feet, approaching the porch that is more a mouth lined in teeth of splintered, jagged beams of wood. Every step closer tightens the knot in his stomach screaming at him that this is a mistake. But the alternative is waiting outside, alone, until the last lingering shimmer of daylight becomes infected with the darkness already leeching the life from the sky overhead. The trees at his back. The shadows creeping ever closer like spindly, greedy fingers reaching to wrap around his ankle.
Meaning there isn’t really an alternative.
The faint, unmistakable snap of a twig snapping somewhere behind him shoots through him with a jolt.
Reki didn’t step on a twig.
Something cold sinks in his chest. He walks a little faster.
Langa spares him one of his tiny half smiles when Reki catches up. It’s incredibly powerful, for such a small dose. Enough to make the twilight feel a bit less heavy and the knot in Reki’s stomach not so churningly tight.
If Reki tucks himself closer to Langa’s side than strictly necessary, he doesn’t say anything about it. Which is exactly why, despite everything, he remains Reki’s favorite person.
And then there’s Miya, whose status as Reki’s second-favorite person is slipping dangerously. After tonight, some adjustments may very well be in order. “Took you long enough,” he says with that hint of haughtiness that perpetually tempts Reki to get on his nerves. (If not him, who? The brat must be annoyed. It’s only fair.)
“He said, still loitering outside because he’s a hypocritical little shit,” Reki adds some crucial details Miya seems to have continently forgotten. Sure, some of the nonchalance is lost as he grips the edge of Langa’s sleeve (as is his right), but the traces of purple twilight are bruising into a sickly stain of spilled ink. The trees beyond the rusted fence are swaying like beckoning hands in his peripheral vision. It’s a sacrifice he’s willing to make.
Miya, naturally, clocks the movement and raises a single eyebrow that screams volumes in its judgment. It’s not the first time Reki has been on the receiving end of that look, but, luckily, it is patently less effective now that he and Langa are dating. He doesn’t have to mentally stab Miya with needles to knock it off before Langa notices, anymore. (Which, fine, Miya doesn’t know that, but it’s the principle of the thing.) Ultimately, it is noted, and it is not appreciated. Oh well. When in doubt, ignoring Miya has always done wonders. No need to stray from the status quo now.
Reki reluctantly drags his eyes away from the darkly winking glitter of broken glass littered before them to the… door? The portal to his own personal hell? Whatever you want to call it. He has to admit, it’s actually not so bad, up close. Nothing a fresh coat of paint, a gallon of gasoline, and a match wouldn’t fix.
“This place is a mess,” Langa says, echoing Reki’s unspoken thoughts. (Or a much kinder version of Reki’s unspoken thoughts, that is.) “I can’t even imagine what it looks like on the inside.”
This is, of course, when Miya smiles his evil, creepy little grin. A solidly consistent precursor to a very bad time. (Usually for Reki, in particular.) “Well, why don’t we find out?”
The pit in Reki’s stomach has just enough time to crumble into a cavern, sweeping empty, scrambling for anything that isn’t solid blankness. Something flies to his lips -either a protest or a general noise to express his discontent he doesn’t manage to catch- but it sticks to his ribs like a chewed-up piece of gum. The kind that’s turned unbearably acrid after being kept too long but you just can’t bring yourself to spit it out.
Then Miya’s palm is flat against the door and it’s already too late.
The door doesn’t open easily. No, that would be too convenient. It sticks and pauses, like a heart stumbling over a beat.
There’s a brief moment, the same as a held breath, where it almost seems like that will be the end of it. As if perhaps the rust and neglect have seeped into the hinges; locked them against anyone daring to intrude only after the clutches of disrepair and rot have wound too tight to escape.
Reki can’t bear to watch. Yet even more, he can’t bear to look away.
But Miya is just as tenacious as rust and twice as stubborn. He pushes, grunts, pushes when that is not enough. Until it is. Until the door gives and cracks into the spaces between Reki’s ribs over whatever had been holding it closed.
Slowly, painstakingly, the breath releases as the door scrapes inward with a sigh.
The squeak of the hinges slowly swinging open cuts into the waning sunlight. Nothing but a shrill shriek. Nails on a chalkboard.
It strums a tune on Reki’s heartstrings that he can’t quite read. A language he doesn’t understand. But somehow, he knows this:
The crickets are screaming. The broken silence rings in his ears. A bead of sweat rolls down the back of his neck. They shouldn’t be here.
The fabric of Langa’s shirt wound between his fingers goes taut. It takes Reki longer than it should to realize it’s because he’s clinging to the scrap of comfort so hard his knuckles have started going white.
The horrific squeal dies, chewed and swallowed into the last dregs of daylight, but Reki can still hear it; feel it. In the base of his skull. The back of his teeth. The marrow of his bones. Even as the door comes to a stop, bumping against the interior dusty wallpaper with a thud that, despite himself, makes Reki flinch. And that’s where it stays, stuck in a wide, frozen yawn as if awakening from a deep slumber, hungry for air.
Or, perhaps, like a hand withdrawn, inviting them inside.
Goosebumps prickle along the back of Reki’s arms. It’s not because he’s cold.
Next to him, Langa takes a breath, but it’s Miya who shatters the silence like the flecks of glass crunching under his feet.
“Come on,” He says, eager, but oddly… hushed, for him. Reki might not be the only one feeling the apprehension after all. Or maybe that’s wishful thinking. “I want to look around while we still have a little light left.”
That’s being awfully generous. The only light to speak of is hardly more than a few streaks of orange cutting through the purple clouds, disappearing quickly into the spreading bruise of night approaching.
A light tug draws his gaze from shadows, the unknown, and all the things he tries not to think about lurking in the corner of his room when he’s trying to fall asleep. To blue eyes he knows almost better than his own, clouded in concern, dimmed under the cover of night and a silent question.
One Reki more than has an answer for. Like hell he’s waiting for them out here.
(Langa is not allowed to make him watch another horror movie for a month, by the way. Two.)
He sticks to Langa’s side like glue while they step over the splintered, rotten threshold. The groan of wood cries into the chill slowly sinking into the dry, dead grass behind them. A piercing sigh of irritation at being disturbed.
It’s loud. So loud that Reki almost doesn’t hear the hushed prickle of a whisper caressing past his cheek.
But he does hear it. No matter how hard he tries to pretend he doesn’t. Ice trickles down the back of his neck.
“Did… you say something?” Reki asks, strained around the lump crawling up his throat. He’s not sure why he bothers. He already knows the answer.
Langa shakes his head. “No,” he says softly. “I didn’t.”
Which Reki already knew, but. Doesn’t make it any easier.
Outside, another twig cracks. There’s still nobody there.
Reki doesn’t let his gaze follow the sound. He’s perfectly content not looking too closely.
Great. Fantastic. Wonderful. There is literally no place Reki would rather be than in the embodiment of several of his worst nightmares.
“Alright, then.” He breaths. It doesn’t help much. “I guess we’re doing this.”
He can’t believe he’s doing this. What has his life become.
Langa smiles at him.
Reki’s knees, rudely, go weak, and between that and the rapid racing of his heart, it’s a wonder he remains standing.
Langa’s hand slides out of the pinched grip Reki has on his sleeve. His sharp, swift betrayal is noted, and then quickly forgiven as he wiggles his way into Reki’s clammy palms and laces their fingers together.
Reki’s heart stumbles over a beat. This time thanks to a new kind of fear. Langa being touchy still startles him, sometimes, but Reki will allow it. This once. He doesn’t even care that Miya is nearby and will give him shit if he sees.
Especially as they make their way past the point of no return, and the door slowly swings shut behind them in a deafening silence that belies the piercing shriek of the hinges. Funny. He doesn’t remember Langa touching the handle.
It’s better if he doesn’t think about it.
Smoke and silence float like echoes through his vision as his eyes adjust to the darkness. The tiny beam of artificial light scraping dents into the dark and the hand holding his are the only things keeping him tethered to his body.
Langa’s fingers squeeze his. “Breathe, Reki,” he murmurs.
Reki hadn’t noticed he’d stopped. He tries to force his lungs back into action, but the air is wrong and heavy and, all in all, it’s a useless endeavor. Reki will breathe when they leave.
He’s not going to say this out loud because, contrary to popular belief, he is not stupid. But something like warning is curling in his gut and he has a bad, bad feeling about this.
(Also, if this is how it’s going to be, he is never letting Miya pick their plans again. Ever.)