Chapter Text
“You’re not alone anymore, Senpai.”
The words rang true amidst the bustle of the train, the vestiges of sunlight peeking through transparent glass onto their skin, casting a faint red-ish glow. Tatsunami’s shoulder was but a shallow comfort, yet a comfort, nonetheless.
Haru wasn’t alone anymore. Not bruised, not broken, not tossed aside. Remembering set a hurt deep into his stomach; forgiveness was a deeper one altogether. He didn’t know if he was ready for that yet. Aoi said it so softly, like it was so easy, like it was a prayer. Maybe Aoi prayed that he could forgive himself—maybe Tatsunami, too. Yet, he hasn’t touched her handkerchief again after remembering—not until he could do what she wanted.
“I don’t know what I would do without you, Tatsunami. Not after this.” Haru mumbled within the space that didn’t exist between them. His voice was barely above a whisper, a silent confession.
“Me too, Senpai.”
For a long moment, there was only the sound of the wheels along the railroad tracks—a rough yet comfortable sound—the soft waves of the ocean below them, their soft breathing mingling with the proximity, and the setting sun that loomed closer to the end of its current time.
This was what he chose. To stay, in the very end.
In the silence, Haru only knew how to remember, and to reminisce, and to try and forget, and to fail horribly doing all of that. For that, he would naturally enjoy Tatsunami’s consistent chatter. How his voice filled the space and eliminated everything else in it. It didn’t make the thoughts, or the voices, disappear but at least, they would be quieter. And quieter was enough.
“You know, Senpai, I’m really glad you chose to stay. To choose me. Again.” Tatsunami said, breaking the fragile quiet. “You could have left and went back. In that world, you’d still be avoiding me, and we’d probably never talk again.” His voice sounded a little softer now, more solemn than he wanted it to be. Haru realized now that perhaps his façade of a cheery, lively worker was to hide the melancholy beneath his character.
Haru chuckled, devoid of any true warmth or emotion. “Well, yeah. I guess that’s how it would go.” His hand, that was originally on his lap, shifted—hesitantly, tentatively—to Tatsunami’s own. “But we’re friends now, right?” A small squeeze, a gesture of reassurance and warmth that he didn’t have but hoped he could give anyway.
Tatsunami’s body stilled for a fraction of a second. The time stopped for him like a clock cracking for the first time. A comforting warmth of another human’s skin; when did he last receive something like that? Did he, at all? Perhaps it was when he held Haru’s body earlier when he fainted, yet even then it was a moment of panic and concern, of voices screaming—you’re a part of this, you’re making him suffer, this is not love not love not love—he couldn’t focus on Haru’s warmth because he felt so undeniably cold in that moment and—
And now, Haru’s hand rested over his. Somehow real, somehow not a dream, and somehow it was sincere. And, somehow, for some reason, Haru didn’t hate him. Didn’t loathe him. And perhaps that’s all it really took; all he ever wanted.
Haru stayed because he wanted to cling onto the peace that remained in their little, fragile world. In that train, in the quiet, and in their promise.
Tatsunami found himself clinging onto it, too.
“Yeah.” He replied suddenly, a crack in his voice subtly revealing his vulnerability. One that he stubbornly refused to show. “Of course we are, Senpai.”
“When the sun rises again, we’ll visit that ramen store you liked, Senpai. The one I introduced you to. It’ll be my treat and I’ll quintuple the size of my order this time, because honestly the quadruple one wasn’t enough, and you’ll get your sad half-ramen noodles in a bowl.”
“Half the noodles is not sad. A full ramen bowl is already too much, and quintuple is going to kill your stomach.”
Tatsunami shrugged. “I think starvation is going to kill you, Senpai.”
Haru sighed, shoulders slumping in defeat. He couldn’t even defend himself from his manager, what more then to Tatsunami?
“Oh, whatever.” He said in defeat.
Tatsunami just laughed, that light, soft laugh that Haru has come slowly to memorize over the course of hours they’ve spent. It’s the one Haru liked, because his laugh resonated through the train like a warm sonata. It kept the silence away; the air filled with fondness and familiarity. The familiarity of when before Haru stopped ignoring Tatsunami, of when they shared meals together after work, and of when they sat together at the fancy dinner table in one of the carts on this train after a simple apple pie.
“Do you feel sleepy now, Senpai?”
A slight shift from his side, Haru moved a little, as if trying to get comfortable. “A little, actually.”
“You can. I’m right here. I’m not leaving.”
Haru yawned. “I know.”
Tatsunami smiled, an instinctive one. Haru couldn’t see it, he didn’t have to. “Good.”
Haru felt the hand he was holding slip away, a comfortable arm resting around his torso. It fit perfectly, felt perfectly, too.
“Good night, Senpai.”
There was the sound of birds tapping on the window when he woke. Behind him, there was an insistent and constant tapping. Haru’s eyes fluttered awake, the past blooming red that casted over the train was now replaced with the all-familiar hue of blue. Like the sea that he would cross by when Haru went to work. He felt the pang of nostalgia and chose to ignore it any way.
A slow, deliberate, and careful movement; straightening his body, sitting upright that made his bones feel a little uncomfortable, having been sleeping with his back slouched the entire night. Tatsunami slept soundly beside him. When he moved, his head silently rested on Haru’s shoulder instead, the arm around his torso had already fallen slack beside him.
Haru stared at the bird perched up by the window, tapping the glass with curious eyes. He’s heard before, but didn’t know if it was true, that birds couldn’t really see windows, or rather, couldn’t grasp that they were there. He wondered if that’s why they always tapped and probed, looking at the blockage that shouldn’t be there but was.
By instinct, he reached for his phone, still tucked in his pocket. He turned it over, front to back, and pressed the power button.
To his surprise, it opened.
The battery read: 56%. Around the amount he had left of it when he boarded the train. The normal one.
He checked his messages, his socials, his games—everything worked. Why? It shouldn’t be. Its battery was supposed to be drained. He remembered it very clearly. How he scrambled to try all the solutions to get his phone working after realizing he was on the wrong station, how he cursed when he saw nothing he did worked.
In that small moment, Haru felt the air tilt. The tilt in the certainty, the tilt in the peace he wanted to keep, the tilt in the train that seemed like it was genuinely going somewhere. This view was a familiar ocean, one that didn’t change when he promised to stay with Tatsunami. Haru thought it would go on forever and they would stay there like that. In that space, he didn’t feel hunger. Or thirst. Or anything at all. Just a soft, warmth.
But now, he feels that his throat feels a bit dry. Stomach a bit too empty, and his body like a slug.
Birds shouldn’t be here either, right?
“Oh, my God.” Haru muttered to himself, standing abruptly, causing Tatsunami to almost fall, if not immediately waking up with a grumble, the abruptness setting him off from his otherwise comfortable rest.
Haru was already by the opposite row of seats, hands on the windowsill, staring blankly—almost in dread, almost in wonder—outside. When he looked to the left, he saw it.
Land.
The city.
He sees Tokyo in the horizon. The next station drawing closer. Realer. Earlier what seemed like foggy mist materialized into comprehensible rough shapes, until it formed to tall, towering buildings. The ones that towered mercilessly over him, the ones he usually disliked, knowing that within them, was a world he never really quite fit in.
Instead, a disbelieving, small, light chuckle ripped out his throat.
A sense of dread, the pit in his stomach, it deepened. Yet there was also relief. Relief from the familiarity of this. Of going to work, exhausting his ass off with a manager that hardly cared about his state, and then going home. A short reprieve, before doing it all over again. It wasn’t like he enjoyed it. No, he really didn’t. But at the same time, he at least knew it. Knowing things… brought comfort. However tragic or horrible it was.
“What’s going on, Senpai?” A light voice rang out through the stillness.
Haru forgot that Tatsunami was there in his disbelief. Forgot that he wasn’t doing this alone. Not anymore.
He looked the most innocent Haru’s ever seen him in that moment. Half-asleep, rubbing his eyes, and his expression relaxed—not the rehearsed one that Tatsunami puts on for show for his co-workers, and not the smile he gives to Haru when he wants to appease him. It was just him. And then Haru realized how lucky he was. How lucky that Tatsunami was still here. Haru stopped grasping for straws a long time ago; hope burning to acceptance, but now he thinks one might have just been given to him.
“I think either something really good, or something really bad, Tatsunami.”