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It was midnight, and a noose hung around Fuchi’s neck.
It was the same rope from back then, in those days of sleepwalking and Shibuya—the very same rope that had snapped from his full weight, so now, it was suspended from a hook in his closet at half-height. The scarf that had once been drenched in cold, salty water was now wrapped around his neck, a barrier between delicate flesh and abrasive nylon. In a room next to his, Mahiru was sleeping soundly, passed out from alcohol—he would not be waking up any time soon.
Everything was in order. Fuchi tightened the noose, bringing the knot squarely at the back of his neck. Was he ready to die, or was he ready to live and repeat day after day of his uniquely miserable existence?
He had read it all. Step-by-step instructions, evidence cited and autopsy reports analyzed, videos linked for demonstration or critique. Rope materials, sizes of thickness, types of knots. Discussion, advice, warnings. The neck was filled with wires, and only one had to be cut. He had seen the medical diagrams enough to know it was a delicate craft. Every vital pipe of the body went through one passage. Wrong artery—it’s the carotids, not the jugulars. Don’t go down there—you’ll hit the trachea. That spot’s wrong—aim for under the chin. Too high, too low. Up here, not there. This way, not that way. Fuchi had memorized every point on his neck. He could tie a slipknot with his eyes closed. He found sturdy anchor points without even looking for them.
In truth, he wasn’t sure if this would work or not. Right now, he was only playing with fate—teetering on the boundary of life and death, and letting the wind take him. Whichever side he fell into was whichever side he ended up at.
What was his life, anyway? Memories of the past haunting the few dreams he had. Sleepless nights filled with blood stains and never-ending tears. Condescending looks and hateful messages from strangers who knew what he had done.
Suddenly, he remembered Ryuuko’s bright smiles, Mahiru’s laughter, and Tobi’s hand interlocked with his. Fuchi almost thought about backing out. No—he wasn’t going to let his brain distract him from the truth. This wasn’t worth it. Sure, Tobi wouldn’t like it, but it’s not like he would understand. Had he been the one sleepwalking in Shibuya, the one watching his father hang from a cord, the one whose face had been marred by boiling water?
Besides, Fuchi was just trying a little bit. It was a small chance, but a chance nonetheless. Whatever happened, happened. It probably wouldn’t even work.
Fuchi leaned into the noose.
The rope went taut, digging into his arteries. Within moments, blood filled his head like a balloon. His face felt like it would explode at any moment. He brought his hands to his red, tingling face—they started to tremble uncontrollably. Soon, the world went quiet. The noises in the background became a dull hum. He adjusted his angle, this time hitting the right spot.
Fuchi breathed in, out, in, out. An indescribable pleasure filled his body—suddenly, he was running through fields of yellow flowers.
Get up, his brain whispered, but he did not listen. He wanted to gaze up at the azure sky for just another moment.
He leaned down, and the pressure deepened. Shivers passed through his body from head to toe. His limbs felt cold and fuzzy, like they had fallen asleep. The air was thinning; he was light-headed now. While his vision blurred, he saw sunny petals drifting past him.
Get up, his brain said, but he did not listen. He wanted to feel the warm breeze wafting over his skin for just another moment.
His knees went slack. He tried to swallow, but his throat was tight. He sucked in a breath, but his airway was thin. His lungs expanded, but his chest was tight. The world had long since gone silent, save for the pounding of his heart and a rough, grating noise that he couldn’t identify. Darkness crept into the edges of his vision like black curtains being drawn shut. He closed his eyes and let sleep take him. The flowers were clearer now, vivid yellow petals silhouetted by golden sunlight. He could almost touch them.
Get up, his brain screamed, but—
—his body listened.
Thump. That was one of many rapid heartbeats. Blood pumped into his muscles, giving him a sudden surge of energy.
Thump. That was his feet slamming against the floor. His spine snapped upright and his nails clawed at the rope.
Thump. That was his body hitting the floor.
Fuchi gasped for breath. Blood poured back into his brain. Oxygen filled his lungs. Sensation returned to his body.
Above him was a noose hanging from a hook. Below him was a cold, hard floor. In his panic, he must have managed to take the rope off. There could only be one culprit—survival instinct. The bane of his existence had become the reason for his existence.
What a shame. He had wanted to dream of golden flowers.
Agony soon followed his disappointment. His head pounded, his throat was sore, and more worryingly, his neck stung. Had the scarf been too thin? After laying there for an eternity, he took the phone from his pocket, flipped the camera to selfie mode, and stared at his disheveled figure.
He was so close to being a corpse. His black hair, greasy and unwashed, was tangled up in a scarf. Specks of red dotted his eyes, blood vessels bursted like his dreams. His eyes had once been glowing a bright, sunny yellow—now, they were dull, black, but unfortunately, not yet lifeless.
Why had Fuchi even tried? It was just one failure after another. He should have expected this to happen.
He pushed the scarf off of his throat. Just as he feared, there was a rope burn. A scarlet ring wrapped around his neck, a red target for the eyes of those who would judge him.
He wondered what Tobi would think if he saw it. Pity? Disappointment? Anger?
Why did Fuchi have to care?
He didn’t know why, but at that moment, he switched out of his camera app, tapped to the photo gallery, and started scrolling. There was only one thing he was searching for. When he found it, he wished he hadn’t.
He saw the image of Tobi’s hand around his wrist, and immediately, tears filled his eyes.
Once more, it was like he was hanging. He was choking, gasping for air, while red filled his face and eyes. Fuchi sobbed—sobbed until he could barely breathe, until his body shook violently, until he was drowning in his own tears.
He opened up his and Tobi’s messages. I’m sorry, was all he typed, then hit send.
Fuchi hid in his room.
It had been hours since the incident, and he was still looking—and feeling—worse for wear. There was the ghost sensation of a rope around his neck, though the real rope still hung from the hook—he didn’t have the energy to take it down. Instead, he lurched to the door, locked it, then tripped his way over to his bed. Once he hit the pillows, he didn’t move a single inch. His tears had dried up long ago—what was left behind was a deep sense of emptiness. He was in an abyssal, black void, not a bright, golden meadow. Instead of frolicking in the flowers, he was lying like a corpse in a grave.
He thought about the mark around his throat. In the past, when this had happened, he had hastily smeared makeup over his neck. For the customers—the only people he had been forced to interact with at the time—it had worked. That was no longer the case, however.
Makeup? What a joke. Now, the only person he knew with enough skill to apply it was Monika. She could cover up different blemishes—the gross, gray scars on his face, for example—but she couldn’t see the one on his neck.
Clothing? Not possible. Wearing a scarf in the middle of summer would only attract more attention. Unlike Tobi, he did not have access to a collection of turtlenecks, nor did he ever typically wear them. Only Mahiru would look normal in a choker.
An accident? Unlikely. He didn’t wear necklaces that got trapped in doors or had materials he was allergic to. He didn’t have a sex life where kinky activities could lead to an embarrassing accident. He didn’t have strangers on the streets lining up to strangle him.
Every idea had no evidence to back it, no reason to justify it, no story to fit the narrative. His options were running thin. What was there left to do but hide?
Morning time arrived. He only knew because of the light seeping in through the edges of the curtains. His phone buzzed once. It was a notification for a text, probably from Tobi. He didn’t bother to check it—he couldn’t. He was too tired to even lift a finger. All he did was close his eyes, but sleep never came.
Next came the afternoon. He guessed it was about that time, anyways, seeing as the soft light had sharpened into harsh beams. Suddenly, there was a knock on his door, followed by a bubbly voice.
“Hey, Sunao!” Mahiru exclaimed. “Sorry if you’re still sleeping, but I made some breakfast. Come get it when you’re ready!”
Fuchi kept both his eyes and mouth shut. Mahiru moved on. Time passed.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
His phone hummed beside him. It could only be one person, and Fuchi was not in the mood for a conversation. He closed his eyes and waited it out.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
Again? He should have gotten the message by now that his friend didn’t want to talk. Fuchi kept his eyes firmly shut and waited for Tobi to give up, but Tobi never did.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
The noise never stopped, an incessant buzzing like a fly whizzing around his ear. Damn it—why did Tobi have to care so much? Fuchi should have never sent that message.
Buzz.
That was a text.
Buzz, buzz, buzz.
What felt like a billion more soon followed—Fuchi had lost count halfway through—until finally, his phone went quiet.
Tobi had stopped, but suddenly, the silence was unsettling.
For all Tobi knew, Fuchi was dead right now. If that was what he believed, then he was in trouble. After all, the boy who had dove into a freezing ocean for him wouldn’t hesitate to kick his door down. Knowing Tobi, a flimsy lock stood no chance against even a single one of his kicks.
Fuchi had no choice but to move. He moved his fingertips. Flexed his wrists. Lifted his arm. Finally, he gained control of a limb. All of his energy was spent on grabbing his phone, which lay just a few inches away. He opened it. The notification center was filled to the brim with missed calls and unread texts—even as he deliberately averted his eyes, he could feel the panic through the screen.
He opened up his and Tobi’s texts. All he needed to do was send a single message.
I’m okay, he typed, and hit send. An instant later, it was read.
Fuchi had fulfilled his duty. His hand went limp, and the phone hit the blankets.
Buzz.
He wouldn’t be reading that.
He knew Tobi would come eventually, but not this soon.
So far, about an hour had passed, if Fuchi had to guess—it was not like he would be checking the time on his phone—and evening was setting in. The light from under the curtains was fading. So was his hope of being left alone.
The warning signs were obvious. Restless pacing. Hushed murmurs. Distinct pauses. Either Mahiru was having a conversation with a ghost, or he was talking to someone on the phone.
In hindsight, Fuchi should have made up an excuse about what had happened—lying through text would have been easy. In foresight, the lie could always be told through a closed door.
Eventually, he heard the distant slam of a door, followed by rapidly approaching footsteps. That could only be one person.
Knock. Knock. Knock. Gentle—just like Tobi when he spoke. “Hey, Buchi,” he said evenly. “Are you feeling okay?”
Fuchi forced his mouth to move. “Yeah,” he called out, voice hoarse. “I’m just a little sick. Sorry.”
“Do you need anything?”
“No.”
“Can I come inside?”
“I’m fine.”
Silence. He wasn’t buying that excuse, was he?
Mahiru was next. Unlike Tobi, his voice was shaking. “Please let me know what’s happening, Sunao,” he pleaded. “You can tell me anything. I promise you it’ll be okay.”
“Don’t worry,” Fuchi mumbled. “I feel fine.”
Mahiru’s voice became a thin, feeble line. “Please, Sunao…”
Tobi piped up. “We’re leaving, but if you need anything, just text either of us.”
“I’ll be there as fast as I can!” Mahiru added.
As promised, the presence beyond his door vanished—two pairs of footsteps wandered away. As not explicitly stated, however, he never heard the door to the apartment be opened and shut.
So, they were waiting. Fuchi would be playing the long game, then. He closed his eyes and hoped his insomnia would give up soon.
He didn’t know how long he lay there, but by the time he opened his eyes again, the glow from the curtains had long since paled. What he did know was that being trapped in bed had started to take its toll. He hadn’t drank, let alone eaten, a single thing since yesterday. Over twenty-four hours had passed. The light-headedness was making him feel as faint as the light outside.
Water. That was what he needed the most. His lips were starting to chap, his mouth was bone-dry, and he felt like he was swallowing sand with every gulp.
It was only a matter of time before he gave in to dehydration. With great effort, he dragged his heavy body out of bed, trudging to the door. He paused. There was still a mark around his neck, glaringly obvious to anyone who so much as glanced at him. Was it worth the risk?
Water. That’s right—he needed water. Just a single sip, and then he could crawl back to his room.
Fuchi cracked the door open an inch. He peeked his head down the hall—nothing. He listened carefully—silence. Maybe Tobi really had gone home without him noticing; Mahiru could very well be out partying. The odds were looking to be in his favor.
Taking a deep breath, he crept out of cover. Swift yet silent, he advanced into enemy territory, shadows cloaking his every step. He peered through the dim light, scanning for attackers. As he went towards the kitchen area, he passed the couch. It was a blind spot—its back was turned to him. Were someone lying down, they would be hidden. He tip-toed forward to check it.
His heart stopped.
Someone was horizontal on the couch, a phone glowing in their hands. Flickering light illuminated their face. Their eyes were beige, their hair pale, their clothes dark. A second blob of shadow leaned against the couch, the silhouette of a backpack.
Tobi. Why was Tobi still here?
Alarm bells went off Fuchi’s his head. Turn back now. No—water. It wasn’t safe. No—just one sip. He was going to shrivel up into dust if he didn’t get some liquid in him. To be fair, Tobi hadn’t noticed him yet, so there was still a chance.
He leaned against the wall, inching forward at a snail’s pace. If he stepped on the metaphorical twig—in his case, tripping from sheer dizziness—it was over. His head was swimming when he reached the sink. In slow motion, he opened the cabinet, grabbed a glass, and held it under the faucet. When he turned the sink on, only a tiny trickle of water came out. It was barely audible through the layer of background noises.
Drop by tiny drop, the cup slowly filled up. Fuchi swallowed, already imagining the water filling his mouth. This was the greatest test of patience in his life.
Suddenly, he heard movement. Behind him was a noise as quiet as rustling leaves, the sound of someone shifting around. It was coming from the couch.
Fuchi’s heart skipped a beat. He shut the sink off, held his breath, and didn’t move another inch.
A soft voice flowed through the shadows. “Buchi?”
No. No. No.
The cup in Fuchi’s hands clattered into the sink. In a flash, he whirled around, pelting down the hall at lightning speed. As he stumbled to safety, he missed a step.
He crashed into the ground with a loud thud.
The next moment, Tobi was practically on top of him. “Are you okay?” he whispered, kneeling by his side. “Please don’t run.”
Fuchi winced, pain shooting through his body. He powered through it, jumping back onto his feet. Tobi was next to him—in other words, within viewing distance of the red mark on his neck. He needed to leave, now.
A hand grabbed his wrist, halting him mid-sprint. “You need water,” Tobi said, standing behind him.
Despite his frenzied efforts to escape mere moments ago, Fuchi hesitated. The word “water” was like a command for him to stop, whispered right into the ear of his subconscious.
Tobi’s fingers wrapped around him—the hold was light, yet firm. “You don’t have to say anything,” he murmured. “Just drink something before you leave.”
Fuchi’s brain was being cruel now—it made him remember the photo on his phone, then even worse, made him realize that was how Tobi was holding him. Suddenly, Fuchi didn’t want to run away.
Tobi’s tone was as gentle as his grip. “Come on. Let’s go.”
“I can’t,” Fuchi said, finally saving himself from temptation. He tried to pull himself free, but was denied his escape.
Tobi’s hand tightened around his wrist. “Just a little bit.”
“No,” Fuchi mumbled.
“Why not?”
When Fuchi faltered, Tobi took a step forward. Immediately, Fuchi jerked away, keeping himself facing in the opposite direction. If Tobi got any closer, he would see the marks. From the back, the rope burn was veiled by his black hair. From the front, it was readily exposed.
Concern filled Tobi’s voice. “Buchi?” He stepped forward again.
Fuchi whirled away, trying to rip his hand free.
Tobi held him back. “Buchi,” he repeated, voice sharpening. He darted forward.
Fuchi spun away, shoulders hiking up like he was bracing for an attack—it didn’t save him when Tobi’s hands actually grabbed him there. Fuchi was flipped around like a card, forced to show his face. He staggered back, but was held in place against his will. In a desperate last effort, he slapped his hands over the rope burn, but it was too late.
He saw Tobi’s eyes look directly at his throat.
“I’m sorry,” Fuchi blurted.
Tobi’s face went pale. His hands slipped off Fuchi’s shoulders, falling limply at his sides. For what felt like an eternity, all he could do was stare.
“Why?” Tobi finally whispered, voice strained.
Fuchi let his hands drop from his neck—what was the point of hiding anymore? “I don’t even know,” he said, both feeling and sounding hollow. “I just did it. I wanted to see what would happen.”
“I’m sorry,” Tobi said faintly.
“No. It was nothing you did. It was nothing anybody did.”
“I should have done something.”
“You’ve already done everything you could.”
“Then why, Buchi?” Tobi snapped.
“Who knows?” Fuchi said, then let out a bitter laugh. What else was there to do when he had already run out of tears?
That seemed to strike a nerve. Tobi’s brows furrowed. His jaw clenched. Behind the fire in his eyes, however, there was a deep despair that made Fuchi’s heart twist.
“I’m tired,” Fuchi said, sighing. “That’s all.”
“Tired of what?” Tobi spat.
“Everything?” Fuchi offered. Vague was as clear as he could get. It’s not like Tobi would understand if not even he could. He shrugged. “I’m used to it, but it still hurts, I guess. Even though it all happened so long ago.”
Tobi’s fists were quivering. “I wish I could do something.”
“Believe me, I don’t think anyone can.”
“You can’t talk like that, Buchi. There has to be something that can help you.”
Fuchi’s smile was lifeless. “If I knew what that was, I wouldn’t be here, would I?”
Tobi’s voice was fierce. “I’ll find it, then.”
“That’s what you said last time, too. Back at the ocean.” Fuchi made a gesture at his neck. “And look at me now.”
In front of him, Tobi’s heart shattered. He looked like he was back there again, on that cold, cold night, despair written over every feature on his face.
Fuchi’s expression dropped—all that was left behind was emptiness. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, turning away. “Please, just stop trying.”
He reached the sink, retrieving and filling the glass of water. Within seconds, he had drunk his fill. Thirst quenched, he set the cup down, only to find that Tobi had teleported right beside him.
“I don’t give a shit,” Tobi spat. “It’s not like I’m going to just forget about you.”
Fuchi’s heart twisted. He averted his eyes from Tobi’s fiery glare.
Tobi slammed his fists on the countertop. “I’m your friend, Buchi. Don’t you dare forget that.”
Fuchi felt every symptom—breaths starting to shake, a lump forming in his throat, pressure building up behind his eyes.
“I care about you,” Tobi snapped. “More than you would think.”
Before he knew it, Fuchi had burst into tears. He slapped both hands over his face. “I’m sorry,” he sobbed, the sound muffled. “I wish it would just stop. I wish I knew why. Why do I keep feeling like this?”
Tobi’s voice softened. “I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want to leave you,” Fuchi choked out. “I like being with you, Tobi. But whenever I’m away, everything hurts again.”
“Stay with me, then,” Tobi murmured.
Fuchi blinked the tears out of his eyes. “Forever?”
Tobi held his gaze. “Forever.”
Fuchi nearly laughed again. “I wish that were possible.”
“It is, for tonight.”
Fuchi sighed. “What about Ryuuko?”
“She’ll survive,” Tobi said dismissively. “She knows she can’t go anywhere.”
“Are you sure?”
“Trust me. She’s probably asleep already.” Tobi’s voice became firm. “I want to stay with you, Buchi.”
“What would we even do?”
“Whatever you want.”
Fuchi almost cried again. He wiped a sleeve over his face, sniffling. “I don’t know…”
Tobi opened his mouth. Suddenly, he whirled around, eyes shooting open. The cause soon became clear. Mahiru must have heard them and left his room. Now, he was stumbling towards them like a zombie, arms extended.
Mahiru was pink all over—his messy hair, his tear-stained cheeks, even the faint red tinging his eyes. “Sunao!” he cried out. “Are you okay?”
Tobi bolted in front of Fuchi, forming a barrier with his body. It blocked Mahiru’s approach, and, despite his short stature, his line of sight to Fuchi’s throat.
Fuchi, on the other hand, froze like a deer in headlights.
“What happened?” Mahiru said, pausing before Tobi. He frowned.
There was a palpable silence between all three of them. Nobody wanted to be the one to make the first move. Fuchi knew he was at fault—whether he wanted to say anything or not, this was his responsibility. He might as well get it done and over with.
“I’m sorry,” Fuchi said, then gently pushed Tobi out of the way.
Tobi resisted the force, giving Fuchi a sharp look of warning. The message in his eyes was clear—are you sure about this? Fuchi gave him an imperceptible nod. Only then did Tobi move, retreating to Fuchi’s side. Their shoulders brushed against each other.
Fuchi could feel the blood pounding in his ears. As often as he apologized, he was no good at actually doing it properly. “I did something I regret,” he stammered. “I—”
Before he could get another word in, Mahiru crashed into him. A pair of arms locked around him, tightening like a vice. It was the strongest bear hug Mahiru had ever given him.
“I’m so sorry, Sunao,” Mahiru wailed into his chest, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt. “Did I say something wrong?”
“No. Just look up here,” Fuchi mumbled.
Mahiru pulled back, eyes glossy with tears. “What?” he sniffled.
Fuchi looked away. “My neck,” he whispered, barely audible.
Mahiru blinked profusely. His gaze drifted downwards, tear-blurred vision slowly adjusting. Fuchi knew—or really, heard—the moment he saw it.
“Sunao!” Mahiru shrieked. He looked stricken with grief, as if he really had walked in on Fuchi’s corpse—as if Fuchi wasn’t standing here in front of him, heart beating and lungs breathing, alive.
Fuchi winced as the noise pierced the air. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t your fault.”
Mahiru collapsed into him, nearly falling to the ground. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” he bawled. “What happened? Please, tell me what happened!”
“Nothing,” Fuchi muttered. “It was just me. I’m sorry.”
Mahiru cried so hard that it shook Fuchi’s whole body. “I didn’t know you were sad! I didn’t notice! I’m sorry!”
Fuchi placed his arms around Mahiru, awkwardly returning the hug. “You couldn’t have noticed. Please don’t cry,” he mumbled. Or I’ll start crying, too, was the unspoken next line.
Mahiru squeezed him until his ribs felt like they would snap. “Are you okay now?” he sobbed.
“Yes,” Fuchi muttered. As much as he could be, anyways, but he didn’t mention that part.
“Okay,” Mahiru sniffled, leaning back. His eyes, glossy with tears, looked straight into his. “I love you, Sunao.”
Why would he say that? The guilt was going to kill Fuchi. “Thanks,” Fuchi mumbled, because what else was there to say? I love you, too, he thought, but if that were true, he wouldn’t have done this to his friend. He averted his eyes and found himself looking at Tobi.
Tobi had backed away. Now, he was leaning against the counter, arms crossed. There was an air of irritation about him—vague, but not unnoticeable. His eyes slid to Fuchi’s, narrowing.
Fuchi glanced away, swallowing thickly. Was he mad? It was understandable. He would be tired, too, if all his attempts at helping someone were useless. He didn’t blame Tobi in the slightest. Frankly, he was surprised it hadn’t happened sooner.
Tobi’s jaw clenched and unclenched, like he was chewing on a piece of gum—or, as if he were struggling to find the right words to say. Finally, he made his move. He bowed his head, hair falling over his eyes like a straight, beige curtain. When he stepped forward, he grabbed one of Fuchi’s hands.
“I love you, too,” he said quietly, holding Fuchi’s hand between both of his. He squeezed it gently.
Fuchi stared at him, mouth parting in shock. Tobi’s gaze met his, warm and steady. When they locked eyes, Fuchi felt warmth spread throughout his chest, even up to his cheeks. It lasted for approximately a second before he was racked by gut-wrenching guilt. Of all the people in the world, Tobi should not be the one saying that—Tobi, the person who had given him the most and gained the least. How could he possibly feel that way?
“Group hug time,” Mahiru declared suddenly, swinging an arm around Tobi and pulling him into an embrace.
Fuchi flinched. Tobi recoiled instinctively, dropping his hands with a scowl. After a moment, however, he timidly crawled back into the hug.
Fuchi sighed. He didn’t deserve this, but it was the least he could do. He placed one hand on Mahiru’s back, while the other hesitantly wrapped around Tobi. Tobi returned the embrace, stiff as a board. He rested his forehead against Fuchi’s side and looped an arm around him. When Mahiru’s hand returned to his shoulders, miraculously, he did not rip it away—of course, he did not reciprocate the touch, either.
The hug was complete. As awkward as it was, it was theirs and nobody else’s. They were three broken, damaged hearts beating together in a cruel, harsh world.
Not that it mattered, of course. None of it did. Fuchi looked down at two heads of hair—one blonde, one pink—and felt his heart swell and ache, all at the same time. How could they be so kind to him? How could they treat him like this, knowing that he was a lost cause? How could they proclaim their love for a person who had only wronged them?
Why did this have to feel so nice?
“I love you both, too,” Fuchi murmured, speaking from the heart.
He closed his eyes and thought of an azure sky, verdant grass, and golden flowers. Right now, this was where his meadow was, even if it was just for a little bit.