Chapter Text
In a dark time , the eye begins to see,
I meet my shadow in the deepening shade;
I hear my eco in the echoing wood-
A lord of nature weeping to a tree
I live between the heron and the wren
Beasts of the hill and serpents of the den.-Theodore Roethke
The clock stared back at him with glowing red digits: 6:00 AM sharp. Not a minute more, not a minute less. He’d managed barely four hours of sleep before the ache in his shoulder began to flare up again. It was subtle for now, but he knew that in a couple of hours, it would sharpen into something so unbearable that his breakfast would consist of two Valium and a glass of water.
The heat was stifling, despite the torrential downpour that had moved through just hours before. He knew opening the window wouldn't help, even at this hour, that godforsaken neighborhood would be a hive of voices, engines, and sensory overload. He could see the neon lights reflected in the glass—the droplets tracing paths down the pane were stained in violets, reds, and blues, searing his retinas.
He stood up, stifling a groan as the furniture creaked beneath him. He wasn't sure if it was his shoulder or the week he’d spent cramped on that cyan sofa—too small and too stiff for a body as heavy as his—but the pain was becoming a permanent fixture in his life. He felt it in every fiber of his being.
The reflection in the mirror was perhaps the worst he’d seen in years. His eyes were bloodshot, a web of broken capillaries clouding their usual brightness, and his sockets looked dark and hollow. It wasn’t just exhaustion. Resignation was starting to leave its mark, too.
The water did little to shake the fog from his head. Suddenly, he noticed the faint creases forming at the corners of his mouth; he felt as though he’d aged ten years in the last month alone. Shaking his head, he stepped out of the bathroom. He’d never admit it out loud, but he hated how his sister-in-law’s perfumes, lined up neatly on the vanity, reminded him of those mornings back in Sendai—when he’d get up for a run and could feel Yuko’s presence throughout the entire apartment.
Shit. He missed her.
Choso and Yuki lived in a repurposed building in Shimokitazawa. It had once been a printing press or a textile warehouse—he couldn’t quite remember which. Now, it was a slab of cold, grey concrete, divided into cramped lofts that carved up what had once been a vast, open space filled with machines and people. Now, it was just another landmark of modern architecture and the soul-crushing real estate speculation of the big city.
He left the door ajar and, without even bothering to put on his slippers, headed for the galvanized steel stairs. He didn’t care for the tiny, white-lit elevator that sat dormant in the stairwell, he hated it almost as much as he hated his neighbor.
His footsteps echoed like war drums. Though he had never been to the floor above, he wasn't surprised to find the same aesthetic, with the sole exception that there appeared to be only one unit on this level. Fluorescent lights flickered with a relentless hum, while gas pipes and electrical conduits ran exposed—it was as if the building were baring its entrails to him. It smelled of bleach, dampness, and something else he couldn't quite put a name to. At the end of the hall, a massive, dark wood door loomed before him.
A faint tremor pulsed beneath his feet: the 6:15 express was passing under the city, rattling everything in its wake. The hanging cables swayed, and the staircase groaned in the distance.
In three strides, he was at the door. He clenched his good hand into a fist until his knuckles turned white, ignoring the warning sting that shot through his biceps. He didn’t knock out of politeness, he hammered against the wood three times with the heavy force of someone used to venting their frustration on a punching bag. The sound was dull and leaden, filling the hallway and momentarily drowning out the hum of the fluorescent lights.
He’d never been one to lose control. He wasn’t a violent person by nature, but he was carrying the weight of the worst month of his life on his shoulders—and, thanks to whatever lived inside that unit, a solid week without a wink of sleep.
"Hey!" he growled. His voice, raspy from disuse and broken sleep, echoed off the concrete walls. "Open up, for God's sake!"
Silence. On the other side, the frantic scratching of claws stopped dead; then, a faint, high-pitched whimper followed. All that remained was the distant hum of the receding train and his own breathing—erratic and heavy with a rage he didn’t know how to contain.
"I know you're in there," he continued, leaning his face nearly flush against the wood. "It's six in the morning. Have some damn respect or take that beast out for a run! I haven’t slept in a week because of you!"
He sensed the person on the other side might be using the peephole, likely thinking twice about opening up. Yuuji was well aware of his own presence: standing at six-foot-four with a massive build was intimidating, even more so when his usually warm personality was eclipsed by tons of simmering fury. That was why he didn’t expect to hear the metallic click of the lock turning with almost ceremonial slowness.
The door swung inward, but only halfway. It stopped short, revealing a sliver of warm, dim light that clashed violently with the cold hallway.
Yuuji took a step forward, chest puffed out and a barrage of insults ready on the tip of his tongue, but he froze.
In front of him stood no disheveled, rude neighbor. Instead, there was a young man. He was lean, with sharp features and a marble-like pallor, dressed in a black crewneck sweater that seemed to swallow the meager light of the landing—it looked several sizes too big for him. His dark hair was a mess, falling over his forehead in rebellious strands, and in his left hand, he gripped two leather leashes.
But what made Yuuji’s heart skip a beat wasn’t the stranger's appearance. It was his eyes. They were a deep, stunning, icy green, yet they didn't fix on him. They remained suspended on an invisible point, a few inches above Yuuji’s injured shoulder, void of any recognition.
"He doesn't do it on purpose," the boy said. His voice was flat, devoid of emotion, but sharp as a blade. "The world is too loud for him. And, apparently, for you as well."
Yuuji opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His gaze dropped mechanically to the neighbor’s hand, which was now reaching for the doorframe with practiced familiarity. Then he saw them: the dark, round-rimmed glasses resting on a small table by the entrance, and the way the boy tilted his head slightly—as if he were dissecting the sound of Yuuji’s ragged breathing instead of looking at his furious face.
Yuuji’s rage, the very thing that had driven him up the stairs like a whirlwind, evaporated instantly. It left behind only a hollow, nauseating pit in his stomach.
"I..." he stammered, suddenly feeling too big, too loud, and stupidly blind.
"If you're finished shouting, I’d like to try and get them fed," the young man stated, starting to pull the door shut. "You can always file a complaint with the building association, though I'm afraid you won't get very far. One of the few perks of being blind."
The sound of the lock clicking back into place felt final. He stood there, rooted to the spot for over a minute, his mouth bone-dry. The chill of the concrete beneath his bare feet seemed to seep up through his legs, freezing his chest.
The perks of being blind.
The words lingered in the hallway, mingling with the electric hum of the fluorescents. Yuuji stared at the dark wood door—now closed and silent—and for a moment, he felt small. Not like a boxer sizing up an opponent, but like a child who had just accidentally broken something precious.
He thought about knocking again to apologize, but the weight of his shame was too much. It wasn’t just his lack of tact; it was how he’d let his rage consume him until he’d done something so despicable, something that went against every moral he held dear. He took a deep breath and whispered a faint "I’m sorry" that no one but him would ever hear.
The sound of his footsteps as he headed back down no longer resembled war drums, they were more like a funeral march, a steady reminder of just how stupid he’d been. When he stepped back into Choso’s apartment, the scent of freshly brewed coffee hit him like a cold slap of reality.
"Yuuji? You okay?" Choso called out from the kitchen, his voice still thick with sleep. "I heard you head upstairs... Did something happen with the neighbor?"
Yuuji leaned against the doorframe. He looked down at his own hands—the same hands that had won championships, now trembling slightly before his eyes.
"Why the hell didn’t you tell me he was blind?" he managed, his voice barely a whisper.
Choso stopped what he was doing and turned slowly, his eyes wide.
"Oh, God... Yuuji, what did you do?"
"Nothing," Yuuji lied as he approached the counter. He popped a Valium into his mouth and washed it down with a long, desperate gulp of water.
"Yuuji, what did you do?" his brother insisted, his tone firmer this time.
"I went up there like a pathetic moron and screamed at a blind man. That’s what I did."
Choso winced, his mouth hanging open for a second as he processed the image. He knew Yuuji’s heart was too big for his own good, but he also knew that pain and grief were pushing him to the breaking point. He stepped closer and placed his hands on Yuuji’s shoulders, forcing him to look up from the floor.
"Hey, take it easy. It was just a slip-up, a mistake," he said with a faint, tentative smile, trying to downplay the situation. "Tomorrow, when you’re feeling calmer, you should go back up and apologize."
Yuuji sighed, letting the tension begin to bleed away under his brother's touch.
"Yeah, I should..." he muttered. "Do you think I should bring him some food?"
He’d spent the entire afternoon wandering the neighborhood streets, letting his mind fill with inconsequential things just to avoid the hollow ache in his chest. He’d eaten at alleyway stalls and watched the sun dip below the horizon until the Shimokitazawa sky bled into a bruised medley of purples and oranges.
On his way back to Choso’s, his feet came to a halt in front of a local gym. Through the large windows clouded with condensation, he could see silhouettes backlit by a yellowish glow: men and women hitting the heavy bags without rest. His heart stirred restlessly—a wild pulse that recognized that language as its own—but then, the flare of pain in his shoulder stifled the feeling.
He leaned his forehead against the cool glass. The contrast between the warmth of the gym and the damp air outside pulled him right back to that night.
He could still perfectly recall the electric atmosphere of Korakuen Hall. The scent of Vaseline, the sour tang of sweat, and the roar of the crowd filtering through the locker room walls. The camera flashes were like explosions, searing his eyes every time he stepped into the hallway. Cold sweat had trickled down the back of his neck, and his hand wraps were pulled so tight he could feel his own pulse thudding in his knuckles.
He had fought for that title since he was a kid who could barely reach the bag in that tiny Sendai gym. That night was supposed to be the culmination of everything: the early mornings in the snow, the cracked skin on his hands, and the promises made to a grandfather who was no longer there.
In the third round, he felt the first warning. A sharp yank, as if a piano wire had been stretched to its limit inside his joint. “It’s just a twinge,” he told himself as he spat blood into the bucket in his corner. “Just a goddamn twinge.” He wasn’t about to let his dream slip away over a stray sting.
But in the fifth round, the world stopped. He threw a left hook—a shot that should’ve ended the fight—and what he heard wasn't the impact against his opponent, but a dull pop inside his own body.
Crack.
It felt as though a branding iron had been driven from his shoulder blade straight into his neck. His arm went limp, a useless mass of muscle and nerves screaming in agony. The ref asked him something, but Yuuji could only see Yuko’s face in the front row, her eyes wide with a terror he refused to share. He kept going. He fought three more rounds with a single arm, slipping punches and enduring, driven by a suicidal stubbornness the commentators called "the heart of a champion." Now, months later, he could only call it stupid vanity.
He won on points. He took the belt home, yeah. But when the doctors cut the glove off his hand at the hospital, the look on their faces told him the truth before a single word was spoken: the damage was almost certainly irreversible. He had won the title, but he had destroyed the only tool he had to make a living.
Walking away from the gym window, Yuuji rubbed his shoulder through his hoodie. The bbelt was tucked away in a cardboard box under Choso’s sofa, gathering dust. It couldn't pay the rent, it couldn't bring Yuko back, and it couldn't put the light back in his eyes.
He was a champion of nothing. A heavyweight who now felt lighter than a feather, tossed about by the wind of a neighborhood he didn't know, drifting toward a concrete building that felt like a prison.
He couldn’t deny he was exhausted. He’d spent over half the day out training with Shiro and Kuro, and the pup seemed to be improving. Perhaps tonight he’d be tired enough to skip his late-night antics. Shiro kept him in line most of the time, but a puppy was still a puppy.
He moved through the space with confidence. It was something that had happened from day one: the hardwood flooring was broken up by different inserts of stone and porcelain—textures that formed an intuitive sensory language. This glyphic alphabet of rules helped him navigate his home. Geto had been meticulous.
He should call him. Say, "Hey, I'm fine, how are you?" But he couldn't, because he didn't know how. All he knew was that on Wednesday at six, Geto would be there, filling the space with his calm, poised presence. He’d speak in that voice—two octaves lower than the one he used with everyone else—trying to coax him out of the cage that had molded itself far too comfortably to his wings.
He set his glasses down on the table. He could still feel their phantom weight on the bridge of his nose, but the worst part was the sensation that followed their removal: a sense of helplessness that clung to him like a second skin, leaving him feeling vulnerable and exposed. He knew it was foolish—that a pair of glasses shouldn't be the thing that made him feel like Gojo did.
felt the shift beneath the soles of his feet. They read the change in temperature, the transition from the oak hardwood of the hallway to the cold marble of the kitchen. Shiro gave him a gentle nudge with his snout to remind him they were there; he didn’t want Kuro tripping him up again. Carefully, Megumi set about serving them their dinner.
He made his way to the floor-to-ceiling window that wrapped around the penthouse. It might have seemed like a cruel joke that someone who couldn’t see would have such a privileged view, but in reality, it made perfect sense. The sun and the moon had become abstract concepts—a broken clock—but the glass was the perfect tool for capturing the shifts in temperature. It allowed him to sense the time of day and the weather outside those concrete walls, or to decide if he wanted to let the breeze sway the useless sheers in the living room.
He felt the faint draft tickle the tip of his nose. The summer breeze in Tokyo was practically nonexistent until the sunlight began to blur into the horizon, and even then, it barely lasted a couple of hours. The city’s roar was starting to echo through the almost sterile expanse of the penthouse. Life was relentlessly trying to find its way in. And then, he remembered the tone of that voice, and his expression shifted.
Goddamn moron.
He turned away from the window, but the echo of that encounter continued to vibrate in his ears with an irritating clarity. Megumi didn't need eyes to build a picture. His mind did it automatically, translating frequencies into volumes and timbres into textures.
That voice belonged to a mid-range baritone, one of those voices with a natural, grounded depth. It wasn't the voice of an old man, nor that of a shrill teenager. Based on the elasticity of the vocal cords and the sheer lung capacity, Megumi guessed it belonged to a young man, perhaps in his mid-to-late twenties. Someone whose ribcage had to be broad enough to sustain those shouts without his voice cracking into a pathetic, high-pitched whine. He visualized someone tall, with broad shoulders and heavy movements.
Someone without a face.
He remembered the shift in the man's tone—that clumsy intake of breath when he realized he’d been screaming at a poor, pathetic blind man at six in the morning. That tremulous "I..." that had stripped away his mediocre performance of a furious man. Megumi stifled a sardonic laugh. It always happened to them, and somehow, it always weighed on him. He walked toward his bed, leaving the window open. It seemed the temperature had finally begun to drop.