Chapter Text
Riku had always thought moving to another country would feel more dramatic, like a scene from a film filled with sentimentality and longing. The kind of moment where tears flow freely at the airport, woven with heartfelt goodbyes and lingering glances back at the familiar streets he had known all his life. He envisioned a final look at Fukui from the backseat of a car, a poignant farewell to the only place he had ever truly called home.
Instead, reality greeted him with his father’s grumbling voice as they navigated the congested highways of Seoul.
“There are too many cars here!” his father complained, his grip tightening on the steering wheel as he manoeuvred through the endless line of vehicles ahead.
Riku gazed out the passenger window at the urban sprawl, the cacophony of honking horns piercing the air. “There are cars in Japan too,” he ventured, attempting to lighten the mood.
His father shot a brief glance at him. “I know that.”
“Then why are you complaining?”
“I wasn't asking for your opinion,” he snapped, dismissing Riku’s attempt at banter with a curt reply.
Riku smiled faintly, retreating back to the landscape unfolding outside. The familiar sights of his childhood seemed to blur into the backdrop of this new reality, and he felt a dull ache in his chest, a longing not just for the physical place but for the comfort of knowing where he belonged.
Seoul was enormous, more vibrant than he could have imagined. This wasn’t his first time visiting Korea, nor his first attempt at conversing in the language, but being thrust into this bustling city felt like stepping into a whirlwind. Riku had been learning Korean since he was young, largely due to his Korean relative—a spirited aunt who insisted he learn properly during family visits.
Initially, it began as simple lessons, greetings, numbers, and names of foods. It gradually evolved into more complex conversations with books and television shows. Eventually, he gained enough fluency that his father felt comfortable bringing him to Korea during his work stint, believing it might help Riku feel less lonely.
“You already understand Korean,” his father had assured him before they left Japan.
“Mostly,” Riku had replied with a hint of uncertainty.
“Then you'll manage,” his father said, as if ‘managing’ equated to belonging somewhere. Riku chose not to press the issue; he didn’t want to challenge the unspoken trust that had always existed between them, even if it now felt fragile.
As they had waited to board the plane, his mother’s tears had flowed freely, his oldest sister hugged him tight until he had gasped for breath, and his second sister had playfully shoved a bag full of snacks into his hands, threatening not to let him return if he looked anything less than healthy. Each moment was laced with bittersweet affection, palpable reminders of what he was leaving behind.
“Call us when you arrive,” his mother instructed, anxiously clinging to hope.
“I will,” Riku promised, knowing he would do his best to keep that vow.
“Every day,” she insisted, her voice firm.
“Mom,” he chuckled softly, wishing to ease her worry.
“Every day,” she repeated, her eyes piercing his with a mother's insistence that he couldn’t ignore.
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
Eventually, he made his way into the classroom on the first day at his new school, a sea of unfamiliar faces watching him. The teacher introduced him as the new student from Japan, and Riku stood at the front, hands loosely clasped behind his back, trying to quell the flutter of nerves in his stomach.
“Maeda Riku,” he stated, his voice steady though quiet.
Whispers floated through the room like wisps of smoke; he could sense their curiosity and judgement. “Can he really speak Korean?” someone asked from the back.
Riku, feeling a spark of defiance surge, turned toward the boy. “Apparently,” he answered in clear, fluid Korean.
Laughter erupted, easing the tension as Riku allowed a smile to break through his apprehension. A boy near the window chuckled openly, and though he was unaware at that moment, this boy—Anton—would become the light that pierced through Riku’s loneliness during this unsettling chapter.
Anton was relentless in his pursuit of friendship. One lunch period, Riku sat quietly in the corner of the cafeteria, absorbing the new sounds and smells around him. Anton bounded into the seat opposite him, a grin plastered across his face, seemingly unbothered by social expectations.
“You're alone,” he declared, assessment clear in his keen gaze.
Riku raised an eyebrow, caught off guard. “Very observant.”
“I’ve seen you sitting alone every day,” Anton continued, unabashed.
“Then you should've figured out that I like being alone,” Riku replied with an edged smile.
“Do you?” Anton countered, eyes glinting with challenge.
Riku paused, contemplating. “No.”
Anton laughed—a light sound that tugged at Riku’s guarded heart. Thus began an easy companionship, built on shared lunches and the simplicity of being together, an unspoken agreement to navigate the complexities of adolescence side by side. Before long, Anton became the boy who sat next to him in class, who walked him home, and whose messages Riku found himself eagerly awaiting.
“You need me,” Anton declared one day, making Riku chuckle despite himself.
“For what?”
“Survival,” he insisted.
“I've survived seventeen years without you,” Riku shot back.
“Barely.”
Their playful banter soon transformed into comfort and camaraderie. Anton introduced him to the lay of the land, guiding Riku through the nuances of school life—who the strict teachers were, where to find the best snacks, and how to navigate the local bus routes.
It wasn’t long before Riku realised how quickly Anton had become an inseparable part of his new routine—how routines, though often warming, could also gloss over deeper tumult. Despite knowing he liked boys long before Anton’s burgeoning feelings surfaced, the clarity of that recognition pulled steadily at his heart. There was never any moment of explosive revelation; it was simply a gentle realisation, a subtle awareness that settled over him like a warm blanket.
Riku felt comfortable with himself, but his father loomed large in his mind. He had always been the “good son", obedient and expected to fill a certain mould, but that mould never catered to his truth. Riku found himself fearing his father’s reaction more than his own revelations, thinking of the man who had sheltered him through childhood, not realising the weight of his expectations until now.
One evening, as Riku sat on his bed scrolling through his phone, he found himself in conversation with his oldest sister. She was folding clothes on the other side of a video call, her discerning eyes watching him.
“You're quiet,” she remarked, her tone curious.
“I'm tired,” Riku replied, feigning nonchalance.
“You're always tired,” she shot back, a hint of teasing in her voice.
Riku smiled. “School.”
She paused, studying his face with a perceptiveness that only siblings possess. “You like someone.”
Stunned, Riku nearly dropped his phone. “What?”
“You have that face,” she continued, unapologetic.
“What face?”
“The face you make when you're hiding something.”
Riku rolled his eyes. “I don’t have a face.”
“Yes, you absolutely do.”
He laughed despite himself. “Who is it?”
“A friend.”
“A boy?” she pressed, her eyes narrowing in playful scrutiny.
Silence engulfed him, heavy and pregnant with the weight of unspoken truths.
His sister’s expression didn’t shift; she simply nodded, receiving this revelation without judgement. “Okay.”
Riku blinked. “That’s it?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know.”
“I love you,” she said simply.
Riku breathed a sigh of relief. “Love you too.”
A few weeks later, the secret slipped through the cracks and became known to his second sister as well. Both of them embraced him without fuss or debate over what it meant—he felt free amongst them, liberated from the shackles of hiding. Their acceptance reassured him, and he momentarily forgot the gravity of his father’s potential reaction.
However, his father's response weighed heavily in the balance, and Riku prepared himself for the conversation he’d long feared. It happened as quietly as a building storm, an evening marked by shadows within the walls of their home. The air was thick with anticipation when his father confronted him.
“Is it true?” he asked, the question heavy with foreboding.
Riku instinctively knew the question wasn't merely about his feelings but about what those feelings represented—a deviation from the expected.
“Yes.” The word came out in a whisper, thick with apprehension.
His father’s eyes darkened, a storm gathering behind them. “Since when?”
“I don't know.” Riku’s voice faltered under the weight of scrutiny.
“Since when?” His father’s demand was sharp, an accusation wrapped in bewilderment.
Riku felt as if the ground beneath him shifted. “I told you, I don’t know.”
“You’re my only son,” his father countered, disbelief lacing his tone.
“I know.” The admission hung in the air, charged with emotion.
“You understand what you’re saying?”
The tension snaked into rare territory as Riku spoke once more. “Yes.”
“You’re still young,” his father declared, imploring.
“This isn’t something I decided!” Riku registered a spark of indignation.
The room crackled with tension, voices rising until the sound of a slap sliced through the air, though it felt like it echoed for years. It was a small sound yet monumental, imprinting itself deep into Riku’s memory—his cheek burned not only from the act but also from the realisation of a rift that had revealed itself.
His father stared at his own hand, stunned into silence while Riku’s gaze fell to the floor. That night, he called his sisters, the half-truths spilling forth. He concealed the bruise of disappointment. “Everything's okay,” he reassured them, plastering on a false smile.
“Riku,” his sister observed, scanning his face through the screen.
“I'm fine,” he insisted, clinging tightly to those words as if they could shield him from the reality he’d just faced.
“You don’t have to be,” she replied softly.
“I know." He forced himself to smile wider, but deep inside, confusion swirled.
After that confrontation, Riku felt a distance rise between his father and himself. They inhabited the same space but grew estranged, sentiments unspoken and hearts at odds. Days turned into weeks filled with silence; they passed each other in hallways and sat at the dinner table, each moment filled with quiet tension. Riku took refuge in his room, where he felt safer than in the chaos of unresolved emotions.
As weeks turned into months, he found himself drifting into a cycle of neglect—simplifying his existence by skipping meals. It began innocuously enough; “I’m just not hungry,” he would tell himself. But gradually, he realised that skipping dinner provided him with a sense of control, a stark contrast to the chaos of his emotions.
When Anton, ever observant, began to notice changes in him, Riku would greet the question with a practised smile. “I'm fine”—words that felt rehearsed, empty in their delivery.
Then, graduation loomed on the horizon, and Riku barely realised it until Anton stood beside him wearing an enthusiastic grin, a halo of joy that Riku wished to mirror. Yet, the lingering question between them remained unresolved.
One fateful afternoon, Anton took a deep breath and finally uttered what had remained unspoken. “You don’t have to choose me,” he said, an undertone of sadness echoing in his voice.
Riku locked eyes with him. “I know.”
“No, you don’t,” Anton replied sadly, a softness framing his features. “You just have to be honest with yourself.”
Dark clouds gathered in Riku’s mind. He understood the message behind the words. But it seemed like such a daunting task; he couldn’t fathom how to confront the labyrinth of his emotions. They slid into a rhythm of friendship, not defined by labels but bound together by shared experiences and quiet understanding.
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
After high school, Riku craved the vibrant pulse of life outside the walls of academia. He started seeking out distractions—nights filled with clubbing, laughter, and adventure, mingling with faces whose names he often forgot come morning. It was within this chaotic freedom that he met Wonbin, a presence so vivid it was impossible to overlook.
Wonbin was charmingly loud, magnetic even, weaving through crowds with an ease that Riku found disarmingly appealing. Their first interaction was clumsy, a shared moment where Wonbin nearly knocked Riku’s drink from his grasp. “Sorry,” he laughed, his voice booming against the loud music.
Riku squinted at the dangerously tipped drink, half-shocked. “You almost killed me,” he replied, attempting to mask his surprise with annoyance.
Wonbin had laughed it off. “You’re dramatic.”
“You spilled half of it,” Riku retorted, though his tone softened when met with Wonbin’s roguish smile.
“But you’re alive,” Wonbin quipped, flashing a grin that sent a small thrill through Riku’s heart.
As the night wore on, Riku immersed himself in the flow of conversation, the initial awkwardness fading into something light and easy. But the thrill of connection began to blur as Wonbin's flirtation grew bolder. Riku felt excitement and a touch of anxiety twist within him.
“Slow down,” he murmured as Wonbin leaned in too close, the intimacy of the moment pricking at his nerves.
Wonbin laughed off the concern, misreading Riku’s discomfort as humour. “Relax,” he insisted, misinterpreting his hesitation as shyness rather than uncertainty.
The atmosphere shifted, and when the awkwardness became suffocating, Riku felt the tightness in his chest limit his airflow. Just as he was about to escape the tension of the moment, another figure stepped in—Sion, the bartender, whose protective presence cut through the noise.
“Back off,” Sion commanded, stepping bluntly between them.
The sudden distance was a relief, and Riku found himself blinking up at Sion in a daze. “You okay? "Sion's voice lowered, concern coloring his features.
Riku nodded instinctively, though relief washed over him too late.
“Yeah,” he replied, trying to gather himself.
Yet Sion could see through the act. “You sure?”
Riku shrugged, suddenly feeling small under the scrutiny.
Sion didn’t take ‘no’ for an answer. He offered Riku a glass of water, his simple demand unyielding. “Drink.”
“What? I can drink by myself,” Riku protested lightly, though he picked up the glass hesitantly.
“I didn’t say you couldn’t,” Sion replied, crossing his arms as he leaned against the bar with that casual confidence.
Riku found himself drinking, the water cooling the warmth of his cheeks. It didn’t take long for them to build a rapport, an easy friendship between the protective bartender and the youth trying to find his way.
Sion became more than just a protector; he became Riku's anchor. They bonded slowly but surely, sharing stories that illuminated their lives, each moment fortifying the connection between them. Sion, despite being a natural flirt himself, managed to introduce Riku to people while maintaining that tender friendship, unravelling the complexities of their worlds together.
When Sion brought his girlfriend around, Riku embraced her immediately with a warm acceptance. She was smart, funny, and kind—qualities that made Riku feel genuine joy. He relished these moments, simple yet powerful, that rang true with the essence of friendship as separate yet intertwined paths.
But life has a way of twisting at the seams, and one night, Sion called, his voice fractured. “I broke up with her,” he murmured, emotion clinging to each word.
“What?” Riku sat up in concern, alarm coursing through him. “You’re crying.”
“I’m not,” Sion retorted, though it was evident his usual flare had waned.
“Really? Because you sound like it,” Riku chuckled softly, trying to lighten the tension.
There was a pause before Sion's admission. “I don’t know what to do.”
Riku's heart ached for his friend. “Come to Daegu,” he suggested, throwing out an idea that felt suddenly right.
“What?” Sion's confusion was palpable.
“Let’s go hiking,” Riku said, ignoring the fact that he personally disliked hiking.
“You hate hiking.”
“I know,” Riku replied with a smirk.
“You complain every time,” Sion pointed out, albeit with growing curiosity.
“Then why would I—”
“Because you like it,” Riku reasoned quietly.
Sion chuckled. “You’re stupid.” It was a weak laugh, but it signalled something hopeful. They made a promise that day, one that transcended words—they would escape together, if only for a breath of fresh air.
When the day arrived, Sion waited at the station, anticipation tangling with worry as minutes stretched into agonising stillness. Riku wasn't late. Riku never broke promises, and Sion could feel the worry building in his chest.
Ten minutes turned into a tense thirty. Sion reached for his phone, fingers nimble but heart racing. Nothing. A call, and then another, but no answer and no Riku. As the train announcement echoed through the station, frustration built within him, heavy and unyielding. The dreaded fear began to rush through Sion; something wasn’t right.
Finally, desperation kicked in. He dialled one last time, the call connecting with an unexpected voice on the other end.
“This is not Riku. Is this Riku's friend?”
Sion’s stomach dropped as confusion morphed into panic. “Yes.”
There was noise in the background—a bustling crowd, footsteps, and a siren wailing somewhere far off. “What happened?” Sion's voice trembled.
“The owner of this phone has been brought to the hospital following an accident.”
Sion felt like the ground slipped from under him. “What hospital?”
Before he could gather his thoughts, Sion was already running, propelled by a gut instinct that screamed urgency.
The fluorescent lights of the hospital felt harsh against the sterile backdrop as he burst through the doors, instincts heightened. He barely registered the receptionist’s questions—information sinking in one ear and going out the other.
“Maeda Riku.”
“Are you family?”
“I'm his best friend,” Sion said, breathless and fervent, adrenaline fuelling his worry.
The nurse checked the records, then levelled her gaze at him. “His father is in surgery.”
Panic clawed at Sion’s chest. “And Riku?”
“He's waiting outside.”
Sion turned on his heel, nearly sprinting down the sterile corridor. When he found Riku, his heart shattered all over again at the sight before him. The boy who had once seemed so certain had been reduced to a shadow of himself, sitting alone outside the surgical room.
A cut marred his forehead, clothes torn, hands trembling—the boy who had made the world seem less lonely now seemed impossibly small, lost in the cacophony of uncertainty.
“Riku,” Sion breathed, crossing the space between them in an instant, enveloping him in his arms. Riku's body pressed against his, weighty with despair, and Sion felt Riku’s grip tighten and felt the warmth of tears soaking into his shirt.
“I killed him." Riku’s words were fractured, despair rippling through every syllable.
“No,” Sion insisted, holding him closer.
“It was my fault,” Riku sobbed, his voice raw.
“Riku,” Sion urged, forcing him to look up. “You didn’t cause the accident.”
“I should’ve stopped,” Riku countered stubbornly, eyes wide with guilt.
Sion’s heart ached. “You couldn't have known.”
“I should’ve shut up,” Riku cried, his voice breaking.
Riku glanced toward the surgical doors, a silent sentinel to the chaos of memories swirling in his mind. The last image of his father, full of concern yet resolved, flickered like a candle's flame: the heated argument that had erupted like a sudden storm, voices raised in frustration, the deafening roar of the truck barreling toward them, and the decisive impact that had shattered their lives. But amidst all that turmoil, he could still remember his father’s strong arms enveloping him, an unwavering shield against the unpredictable world.
He buried his face into his hands, the weight of guilt pressing heavily on his chest. Sion, his steadfast friend, settled beside him, allowing the silence to wrap around them like a fog while they waited. Time became meaningless; minutes stretched into an hour and then another, each second taunting Riku with the memories he wished he could erase.
The sudden clatter of hurried footsteps broke the stillness, drawing Sion's attention to the end of the corridor. Riku remained still, tethered to his anguish, until a name pierced through the fog of despair.
“Riku?”
His head jerked up, disbelief washing over him as he recognised that familiar voice.
“Mom?”
She rushed towards him, her face a mixture of worry and relief, flanked by his two sisters—each weary from their journey across oceans, faces pale, eyes wide and filled with questions. They had boarded the first flight from Japan, propelled by urgency and a shared sense of dread.
“Riku,” his mother pleaded, wrapping him in an embrace that felt like home. For a moment, he stiffened, struggling against the tidal wave of emotion, but the warmth of her love shattered his defences.
“Mom,” he whispered, surrendering to the safety of her arms.
“We're here,” she assured, her hand soothingly stroking his hair, as if she could brush away the remnants of his heartache.
He clung to her, the words tumbling out of him like a torrent. “I’m sorry.”
“No,” she responded sharply, shaking her head with fierce determination. “You’re here.”
“I—”
“Enough. Just be here.”
His sisters joined the embrace, each offering their own comfort. One wrapped her arms protectively around him, while the other knelt before him, tears gliding down her cheeks like glistening trails of pain.
“Where’s Dad?” she asked, her voice fragile.
Riku cast his gaze toward the daunting surgical doors, uncertainty pooling in his stomach. “They’re operating,” he murmured, barely audible.
His oldest sister followed his gaze, understanding flashing in her eyes. “Is he still inside?”
He nodded, the weight of dread anchoring him to the spot.
The three of them turned toward the doors, a collective breath held in worry. Their mother closed her eyes, a quiet prayer escaping her lips. Riku’s heart throbbed with an ache that refused to fade.
“I killed him,” he blurted, the guilt overpowering.
His sister shot him a fierce look. “Don’t say that.”
“But—”
“You didn’t.”
“We were arguing…”
“That doesn’t mean you caused this.”
“I distracted him,” he insisted, the words laced with despair.
She crouched down, locking eyes with him, her expression earnest. “Riku.”
He met her gaze, searching for an anchor amidst his turmoil.
“You didn’t drive the truck.”
Silence enveloped him, her words echoing in the hollow space of his mind.
“You didn’t make it speed.”
Still nothing.
“You didn’t make it hit the car.”
She reached for his hand, squeezing it in solidarity. “We don’t blame you.”
A knot tightened in his throat as he felt tears well. His other sister, having taken a seat beside him, wrapped her arms around both him and their older sibling, creating a cocoon of comfort.
“We don’t blame Dad either,” she added softly. “There doesn’t have to be someone to blame.”
Their mother’s gentle hand touched his cheek as she searched his face. “Sometimes, terrible things happen. It’s not your fault.”
Riku turned away, his heart conflicted. He longed to believe them, but the chains of guilt bound him. The argument had spiraled into something explosive, his anger leading to this moment—his father had only been trying to protect him.
Sion remained quietly present, an anchor in the storm, his presence calm and steady.
Eventually, the surgical doors swung open, and the family stood, muscles tense with anticipation. A doctor stepped through, his expression a blend of professionalism and empathy.
Riku barely registered the initial words, only catching fragments: the surgery had gone well, they said. His father was alive—a ray of light piercing through the fog of despair—but the injuries were severe, requiring continuous monitoring.
“Alive?” Riku echoed, disbelief mingling with hope.
The doctor nodded. “Yes.”
His knees buckled, and his sister caught him, steadying him as a rush of relief flooded through him. “Dad’s alive,” he mumbled, the weight of his guilt momentarily lifted.
The doctor briefed them on what lay ahead: recovery would be challenging, but they could face it together. Riku began to grasp the concept of hope, a fragile thing to hold onto, yet wonderfully, miraculously, alive.
His mother and sisters stayed for several days.
They took turns sitting beside his father's bed, brought food from the hospital cafeteria, spoke with doctors, and tried to make sense of paperwork none of them had expected to deal with in Korea.
But eventually, reality caught up with them.
They had jobs waiting in Japan.
Responsibilities.
Lives that couldn't simply be abandoned indefinitely.
And Riku's father's situation made returning him to Fukui impossible for now.
His medical treatment in Korea was tied to the arrangements made through his overseas work, and more importantly, the doctors didn't believe he was stable enough to be transferred.
So they would stay for as long as they could.
Then they would have to go back.
Riku understood.
He hated it.
But he understood.
One evening, his mother sat beside him in the hospital cafeteria.
“You can call us whenever you need.”
“I know.”
“Any time.”
“I know, Mom.”
His oldest sister smiled.
“Even if you call at three in the morning.”
Riku laughed weakly. “Why would I call at three in the morning?”
“Because you're you.”
His second sister nudged his shoulder.
“Don't pretend you're normal.”
Riku smiled.
It was the first real smile he'd managed in days.
Then his mother reached into her bag.
She pulled out a small photograph.
Their family.
Taken before Riku had left Japan.
She placed it in his hand.
“Keep this.”
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
As days morphed into weeks, the hospital became both sanctuary and prison—a sterile realm illuminated by the flickering lights of machines. Riku remained vigilantly by his father’s side, learning to navigate the delicate roads of grief and hope. His mother and sisters alternated their time, providing a support system that kept them all anchored amidst the storm.
Every day, Riku spoke to his father, divulging his fears and regrets. Sometimes he held his hand, hoping the warmth would convey what words could not. Other times, he effortlessly drifted into the silence, comforted by the rhythmic beep of the machines.
Night after night, he forged a bond with the man behind the veil of unconsciousness, sharing stories of his life, the things he wished he could have shared before. Sion stayed by his side when his family couldn’t, bringing laughter back into the gloom and reminding Riku of his value.
As time ebbed on, the monotony of hospital life enveloped him, but beneath the surface, Riku’s perspective shifted. He found himself opening to others—his friends, the hospital staff, and those seeking solace. Each interaction became a building block to his recovery, a reminder that he wasn’t alone on this journey.
Yet, Sion saw the toll it took on him. One evening in the cafeteria, he placed a plate of food in front of Riku, watching as Riku's resolve faltered. “Eat,” he urged, concern etched across his features.
Riku looked at the food as if it were foreign. “I’m not hungry—”
“Not hungry? More like you haven’t eaten in days,” Sion shot back gently.
“I’ll eat later.”
“You said that yesterday.”
A hint of a smile flickered across Riku's lips. “I’m fine.”
Sion’s gaze was unwavering. “You don’t have to do everything. You can let people help.”
Those words struck a chord within Riku, stirring thoughts he had been too busy to consider. In the depths of his grief, he realised he didn't need to wear a mask of strength at the expense of caring for himself. It was okay to be vulnerable; it was okay to lean on others.
As Riku pondered those revelations, Sion didn’t press further. He simply remained, a stalwart presence in a world that felt unsteady.
Holding the photograph of his family in his wallet became a source of comfort, a tangible reminder of love. Despite the distance of miles, it lived within him, a flicker of hope that one day they would be reunited.
And then, one evening, as Riku sat beside his father, his hand gently holding the warm fingers that felt so familiar yet so distant, he allowed himself to breathe deeply.
For the first time in what felt like eternity, he smiled—tired, but real. It was a small act, but it held a universe of meaning. Riku realised he wasn’t alone; his family, in heart and spirit, was still with him. And the path ahead, although fraught with uncertainty, could also be paved with renewed connections, healing, and the promise of love enduring through even the darkest of nights.
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
By the time Riku entered university, he had meticulously crafted a life that revolved around the hospital. His days were a tight schedule of classes in the morning, hospital visits in the afternoon, and late nights at home, where meals were often reduced to whatever he could convince himself to finish before collapsing into bed. It was a routine he had grown accustomed to, one that felt manageable, if not particularly thrilling.
The university had offered dozens of clubs during orientation week, ranging from photography and music to basketball, football, volleyball, and a social club that seemed to exist mainly for students seeking casual connections without any serious commitments. Riku found himself lingering in front of the volleyball club booth for nearly ten minutes. He still loved volleyball, the sport resonating deeply within him—reminders of sunny weekends spent playing with his father in Fukui, where they would laugh together as Riku missed easy shots or failed to serve above the net.
“Again,” his father would insist with a grin, even when Riku was on the brink of exhaustion. The memory warmed him, a gentle nudge from the past echoing in his mind. With the registration form crumpled in his hand, he hesitated, feeling a bittersweet ache before turning his gaze to the club schedule. Practice ended at six, an hour that would conflict with his hospital visits.
He exhaled slowly, folding the paper. “Maybe next year,” he muttered, folding it away.
The social club concluded at four—a far more favourable option. Four o'clock meant he could take the bus to the hospital without rushing, ensuring he’d sit beside his father before visiting hours ended. Four o'clock meant he could still be there even if his father woke up. So, Riku signed his name under the social club instead, a choice that both relieved and disappointed him.
Sion, who had stood beside him throughout his decision process, raised an eyebrow as he glanced at the paper. “You chose this?”
“Yes,” Riku replied, although uncertainty tinged his voice.
“You hate this kind of thing,” Sion retorted.
“I don't hate it,” Riku countered.
“You hate people.”
“I don't hate people,” he defended, frustration bubbling beneath the surface.
Sion scrutinised him, and Riku sighed in concession. “Most people,” he amended.
“That sounds more accurate.” Sion’s eyes flicked toward the volleyball booth. “You were staring at that for ten minutes.”
“I like volleyball,” Riku said, defensively.
“I know,” Sion replied, a knowing smile teasing his lips.
Riku shifted his gaze downward, suddenly feeling exposed in his decision. “It's okay.”
Sion recognised the weight behind those words and chose not to press. Instead, he took the pen from Riku’s hand and signed his name beneath Riku's.
“What are you doing?” Riku asked, taken aback.
“Joining,” Sion responded matter-of-factly.
“You hate social clubs.”
“I hate waking up early more.” Sion’s grin widened. “You're joining because I need someone to carry me through group activities.”
Riku couldn't help but laugh. “You're impossible.”
“And you're stuck with me,” Sion declared, his usual upbeat charm buoying Riku's spirits.
Riku discovered that the social club was, surprisingly, less terrible than he had initially anticipated. The members were a mix of ordinary university students—affable, easygoing individuals who, despite their different backgrounds, forged bonds over shared experiences. Laughter echoed in their meetings, a sound Riku found comforting, even if he struggled to engage as fully as Sion. He was a natural listener, content to observe the interactions that swirled around him.
While Riku blended into the background, Sion was thrust into the spotlight, instantly becoming popular. His charm and charisma, honed from working at a local bar, allowed him to keep conversations flowing effortlessly. Within weeks, half the club knew Sion’s name, while Riku often fielded questions about their friendship.
“I don’t know,” Riku would reply, bemused.
Sion would chime in with his ever-playful grin, “He’s obsessed with me!”
“I am not!”
“He follows me everywhere.”
“You literally followed me here.”
“Details.”
The meetings evolved into a comfortable routine, where they would plan small events, organise university activities, and often grab a bite to eat afterward. To Riku's surprise, he found enjoyment in such outings. Yet, come four o'clock, he always slipped away, gently excusing himself, sometimes with a goodbye, sometimes quietly retreating.
Sion never questioned it. He always knew where Riku was headed—the hospital. Unspoken understanding passed between them.
A month after the accident, as Riku sat beside his father’s hospital bed, something remarkable happened. His father’s hand twitched, a subtle but undeniable movement. At first, Riku thought he imagined it, staring intently at the same wall for far too long. But then came another flicker of motion—his father's fingers moved again.
Riku froze, disbelief rendering him momentarily speechless. “Dad?” he called softly, leaning closer, desperation lacing his voice. His father’s eyelids fluttered, and Riku nearly toppled over in his hurry to stand. A nurse rushed in at the sound of his agitation.
“He moved,” Riku stammered, barely able to form coherent sentences.
Moments morphed into a whirlwind of activity. Doctors rushed in, nurses checked the machines with precision, insisting Riku step outside temporarily. He resisted until they reassured him he could stay, his heart racing as he watched his father’s eyes flutter open—not fully, not for long, but enough for Riku to feel that electrifying spark of hope.
“Dad?” he breathed, tears blurring his vision as he leaned forward. Recognition flickered in his father’s gaze, marred by confusion, exhaustion, and pain. But it was there—a connection. Riku reached for his father’s fragile hand, their fingers entwining with tender familiarity.
“...Sorry,” his father whispered, the word barely above a breath.
Riku’s heart sank, caught in a wave of emotions. He shook his head, lowering it until their hands met against his forehead. “Don’t,” he urged, his voice trembling. “You don’t have to say that.”
His father didn’t respond, unable to articulate his thoughts fully. Communication had become a fragile dance of small movements, fleeting expressions, and ever-so-brief moments where words appeared. But he was awake. He was there. And for Riku, that was more than enough.
That night, he wept quietly by his father’s side, not because everything had been resolved, but because they had found their way back to each other, if only for a moment. The emptiness he had carried for weeks began to dissipate, replaced with a sense of something fragile yet steadfast. Though his father might never return entirely to who he was, a connection lingered—a reminder of stronger days.
Riku kept his father’s words to himself, cherishing the preciousness of the moment. Not even Sion learned of that whisper, perhaps out of fear that speaking it aloud would diminish its significance. When asked, "How is he?" Riku would only smile and say, “Better.” And for once, he wasn’t lying.
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
The meeting concluded earlier than scheduled that afternoon. Riku stepped out of the club room and glanced at his phone. 3:18 p.m.—plenty of time before visiting hours began. Instead of heading straight for the bus stop, he felt the urge to explore the campus a little longer.
Wandering toward the older buildings at the edge of campus, he relished the warm afternoon sun that wrapped around him like a familiar blanket. He stopped beside an outdoor sink, retrieving the bottle of barley tea he had purchased. That’s when he noticed a man standing there, leaning over the sink as water cascaded over his hands.
Riku paused, examining the stranger, who remained shrouded in shadow, the light outlining his figure in glowing edges. He noticed the man’s shoulders slouched and head lowered; there was an unmistakable sense of solitude about him.
A pang of recognition shot through Riku. He understood that stillness—the silence people wear when trying desperately not to confront their thoughts.
He looks sad.
Riku contemplated walking away—an impulse to respect the man's space—but something compelled him to stay. Just as he turned to leave, the man lifted his head, revealing a faint scar along his cheek.
A moment of connection flared in the air, and Riku held out the bottle of tea, instinctively speaking the words, “はい、どうぞ.”
The man turned towards him, a mix of surprise and gratitude in his eyes. “Thank you,” he said softly.
Riku nodded, sensing a silent exchange between them even amidst the shadows of their uncertainty. For a moment, they lingered, neither moving, each caught in their thoughts. As the stranger hesitated, Riku’s phone rang, jolting him back to reality.
He glanced at the screen—Sion.
“Sorry,” Riku said, stepping back. “I’ve got to take this.”
The call whisked him away, but the man remained by the sink, staring after him as Riku disappeared around the corner, black beads glistening on his wrist.
Japanese.
The word echoed in the stranger's mind, wrapping around his heart like a memory not often invoked. He hadn’t heard another Japanese person speak to him like that since coming here. He looked down at the bottle in his hand, contemplating the warmth of the interaction.
Riku, meanwhile, walked toward the bus stop, Sion's voice still filling his ear. He didn’t dwell on the brief encounter; however, as he turned the corner, he cast a final glance back. The man was still there, the scar on his cheek stark in the fading light, an air of melancholy surrounding him.
That feeling lingered—a bittersweet familiarity, the quiet echo of loss all too well-known to Riku. Shaking off the sensation, he turned away again as Sion called his name, continuing on his path.