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Cold.
Everything is cold.
And wet.
God, my head—
It's pounding.
Who the fuck is screaming so loud?
Just—shut up.
Please.
I need quiet.
My head hurts.
My arm hurts—
oh. I'm bleeding.
Why am I bleeding?
Right.
He's hurt.
He's not okay.
Can everyone just—
Shut the fuck up?
Stop yelling, now's not the time—
It's hard to breathe.
Like my chest forgot how.
Wait.
I'm screaming.
“Shou.” Hizashi’s voice cut through the darkness as he tapped his shoulder.
Shouta jerked awake, air catching in his throat as he sat up too fast, gasping. Sweat stuck to his skin, his shirt damp and clinging. For a moment, the room tilted. The echo of his dream bled into reality — crushed stone, the smell of dust and blood, the sound of someone dying.
“Hey,” Hizashi said softly, sitting up beside him. “You okay?”
Shouta tried to speak, but his breath came out ragged. He pressed a trembling hand to his chest. “I’m fine,” he rasped, though he wasn’t.
“What happened in your dream?” Hizashi’s voice stayed gentle, his hand drawing slow, grounding circles across Shouta’s back.
“Nothing. It’s fine.” Shouta ran a shaky hand through his hair, damp strands clinging to his temples.
Hizashi sighed, his voice quieter now. “Shirakumo?”
“Zash, I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay. I get it,” Hizashi murmured.
“Do you?” Shouta turned, his voice shaking. “Do you get it? Because I feel like I’m going crazy — like I’m the only one still haunted by that stupid day.”
“Shouta,” Hizashi said, eyes flickering with something that looked like guilt, “I went through the same shit. I watched him die, too. That memory hits me like a train all the fucking time.”
“Then why don’t you ever talk about it?”
Hizashi drew in a slow breath, jaw tight. “You know how I was raised.”
Silence. The kind that fills a room until it hums.
Shouta swallowed. “Yeah.”
“Just because I don’t talk about my shit doesn’t mean it doesn’t affect me.”
“I know,” Shouta whispered. “I’m sorry. I’m just… tired.”
He lay down on his side, eyes locked on the wall. “Really tired.”
Hizashi hesitated before lying down beside him, resting a hand on his waist. “I know, Shou.”
Shouta didn’t sleep. He just stared at the wall, heart heavy, chest aching like something inside him had split open. His mind replayed it again and again — the flash of light, the collapse, the scream that ended mid-breath. Every detail was etched into him like scars he couldn’t see.
That day had never ended. Not really. It lived in him, looping endlessly like a cruel film he couldn’t stop watching.
“It’s like a haunted house,” he whispered. “Only I’m the ghost.”
Hizashi stayed quiet, his fingers tracing soft circles along Shouta’s hip, like maybe he could draw the pain away.
“I can’t get out,” Shouta said, voice cracking. “Of that nightmare. Of that day. I don’t think I’ll ever be okay again.”
“I know, love.” Hizashi pulled him close when Shouta turned toward him. His hand threaded gently through his hair, trying to soothe him — trying to keep him here.
Shouta buried his face in his shoulder, words muffled. “I hate this. I’m in my twenties, but it feels like most of me is already dead.”
Hizashi closed his eyes. He didn’t respond — because there was nothing to say. He knew that feeling too well. Something in him had died that day, too, and no amount of years or laughter could fill the space Oboro left behind.
The hole never shrank. It only learned to breathe.
That’s the thing about grief, no one warns you about: it doesn’t fade. It doesn’t politely leave when you’ve “moved on.” It settles in your bones and grows roots. You learn to live around it, but it’s always there — whispering, waiting, reminding. Even when you hide, it doesn't go away. Even when you push it down, it festers. The ache dulls, sure, but it never disappears. It just becomes a part of who you are.
“Do we have any weed or something?” Shouta mumbled after a long silence. “I don’t want to be sober when I feel like this.”
Hizashi hummed quietly. “We’ve got brownies. I’ll grab them.”
He slipped out of bed, his footsteps soft against the wooden floor. The hum of the fridge filled the apartment. Everything felt muted — like the world was holding its breath.
When he came back, Shouta was sitting up, knees pulled close, fidgeting with the sleeve of his hoodie. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, staring at something only he could see.
“Here.” Hizashi handed him half a brownie and sat beside him, taking a bite of his own.
Shouta took it without looking away from the wall. He chewed slowly, mechanically.
“I wonder if life is ever gonna stop being so shitty,” Hizashi said quietly, head resting back against the headboard.
Shouta gave a humorless huff. “I don’t know. Maybe when we’re thirty we’ll finally get our peace.”
They waited for the weed to settle in. The silence stretched — not empty, but full of unspoken things.
Eventually, they were lying side by side, Sushi curled up on Shouta’s stomach. The blinds carved lines of faint streetlight across the ceiling. Every few minutes, headlights from passing cars painted them in silver for a heartbeat before fading away.
“Is it bad that I hate my life?” Hizashi asked softly. “Not all of it, I mean. I love you, and that’s the one thing that feels real. But besides that? I hate it. I think I’m so fucked up that I can’t enjoy anything. I’m just angry all the time.”
Shouta nodded, his voice barely a whisper. “Yeah. I get that. I think if we hadn’t started dating in high school, I probably wouldn’t be here right now. But sometimes…” He paused, his throat tightening. “Sometimes when I look at you, I think of Oboro. And it hurts. Because I met you through him. I don’t know if that makes sense.”
Hizashi turned his head toward him. The air between them felt fragile — a shared grief neither of them knew how to carry without it cutting their hands.
They were drowning, and neither could swim. But at least they were drowning together.
“I shouldn’t have said that,” Shouta muttered.
“It’s whatever,” Hizashi whispered.
It wasn’t. But Hizashi didn’t want to make him feel worse. They already fought too much — about dishes, work, memories, anything. The smallest things turned sharp when the ghosts were close. This didn’t need to be another fight.
Shouta’s voice broke the silence again, small and trembling. “Do you think this will haunt us forever? His death?”
Hizashi rolled onto his side to face him, his hand absently stroking Sushi’s fur. “I want to say no,” he said softly. “But… yeah. I think so.”
Shouta exhaled slowly, eyes shutting. “Yeah. Me too.”
Hizashi sighed, the ache in his chest deepening until it felt like it might swallow him whole.
“Yeah,” he breathed.
Yeah.
Because even if you hide, it doesn’t go away.
It never does.