Chapter Text
The flowers at Yuka’s bedside are wilted. They crumble too easily when Yuka turns to touch them, grimacing when the mess they leave behind is more than she’s willing to clean up. Her hands tremble when she brings them back to her side. The smell of pollen is faint on her skin.
The door creaks open but Yuka doesn’t bother looking up. There’s only been one person visiting her all this time—a fact that she really shouldn’t find as amusing as she does now. It’s been a few days since she’s last had a visitor. Yuka wonders if he’s come by to finally replace the flowers.
“I’d wondered where you went. It gets lonely, staring out that window all day.”
Yuka shifts her weight and the hospital bed groans from beneath her. Her wounds are still healing but welcoming Yatora has become something of a routine—it’d be rude to not face him so.
“Sorry about it. Final exams were coming up… ah, but you must not have known, right? Sorry. I’ll be sure to let you know next time.”
The conversation stops there. It’s a pity, really, since Yuka has counted down the minutes since Yatora had last entered that door. It feels pathetic (the exact number is 7200).
So when the silence becomes agonizing and Yuka finds that her fingernails dig hard enough into soap-softened flesh to draw fresh blood, she bears the pain and speaks up. It’s the least she can do at this point.
“Yatora, when I first woke up, you promised that you’d tell me anything I wanted to know, right?” Yuka smears her bleeding palms against the white sheets. Finally, a smell to mask that horrid disinfectant.
Yatora rocks against the heels of his feet.
“Yeah. I wouldn’t lie to you about something like that.”
“Good. I didn’t… I never thought you would. So, answer me this—“
Yuka stumbles from the bed—rips the needles from her arms and takes the first step towards freedom—that first step towards Yatora. The scars on her legs are still bloodied and bruised and provide nothing to support her as she falls. Yatora finds her in his arms, too shocked by the sudden movement to mutter anything less than incoherent. They end up dead on the cold floor.
“W-what are you doing?” Yatora mumbles under his breath, head turned as if the sudden proximity will somehow burden Yuka. Destroy me, is all she can think.
“I want you to tell me the truth. Please. Yatora, did I love you? Did I love you back then?”
It’s the silence that hurts the most. A simple no would have sufficed.
In the end, Yatora does not say anything of use. Merely opens his mouth and repeats what Yuka has heard since the moment she’d awoken from that blank space.
“I don’t know, Yuka. That’s for you to decide.”
A supposed positive of amnesia, according to Haruka, is the inability to remember pained memories. Yuka decides that this statement is probably true, for who knows how badly she would have reacted to being kicked out of her family home had she still remembered the past. In the few days that Yuka has known Haruka, it seems that this is the first time he has held some semblance of an intelligent thought. Yuka has a feeling it is not the first time for just this strain of memory.
With no reason left to care for familial ties, Yuka finds herself moving in with Yatora. Surprisingly, it is he who suggests the transition—if not proposed behind blushing hands and flushed roses. Yuka giggles at the sight of this mock confession. It’s endearing, in its own silly little way.
Thankfully, there is not much to unpack at Yatora’s apartment. He tells her on one particularly cold autumn day that he’d moved out a few months prior. After all, living with one’s parents can only really be deemed fashionable up to a certain point in life. It’s a spacious place—the living room sofa being enough for Yuka to sleep on for the time being. Is it wishful thinking for Yuka to want to share a bed with Yatora?
“That should be it.” Yatora wipes the sweat from his forehead. He seems pleased with the work he’s put out so far. “You don’t have anything else to unpack, do you?”
“Not really. A few sketchbooks, I suppose, but I can handle those myself.” Yuka knows Yatora is pitying her. There’s not much else she can do for the time being—wheelchair and all.
“Then don’t worry about it. I told you I’d get everything.”
Yuka slumps back into her seat. What a pain it is. To be in love.
“You really don’t lie, do you, Yatora?”
The night feels longer than usual. Yuka stretches her palm flush against the kitchen window and bites back a shiver when the cold proves to be too much. When the weather becomes warmer, Yuka decides that she will make a trip to the nearby park. It has been too long since she has set foot, or rather, wheel outside. It is embarrassing to face the world weak and useless. This is how Yuka sees it.
But there’s no use in pitying oneself. Yuka has already spent too long doing as much. Instead, she picks up the half-eaten dishes from the dining room table and dumps them without much care into the sink. Yatora can deal with it when he gets home. It’s not as if she really has the ability to reach the faucet, anyways.
Has Yatora been out all day? Seconds seep into minutes and minutes bleed into hours. Yuka has since given up on counting. Regardless of how long it has been, Yuka has felt the gap. That empty space where Yatora should be. Needs to be. If she thinks about this for too long, Yuka swears she may go mad.
There’s a knock at the door. Perhaps Yatora has forgotten his keys. It wouldn’t be a first.
“Ah, shit,” Yuka brings her hands to her lips before pushing herself to the entrance. “I’m coming, I’m coming.”
When the door opens and in place of Yatora stands an old woman with frail hands and wrinkled skin, Yuka begins to think that perhaps Haruka had been wrong. Amnesia does not cure what the heart knows true.
“G-grandmother?” Yuka breaks. How commiserating is this sight.
“Yuka-chan… I’m so sorry for coming this late. I couldn’t find any other time to bring your belongings here. Your friend was kind enough to tell me where you were staying.”
The woman reaches up and cups a palm against Yuka’s cheek. It feels like home.
“Grandmother…”
“I gathered what I could before your father threw most of it out. I know these were important to you.”
Besides the basic necessities (a plethora of hair ties and paintbrushes, among other things), there is one item that stands out the most. A plastic bag filled with letters. The old woman places it gently into Yuka’s lap.
“I need to leave soon but… the young man living with you knows how to contact me. I’m sorry I can’t do more for you right now, Yuka-chan. I love you.”
“Wait-“
Is it even worth it—calling out like this? Pathetic. Yuka is so pathetic.
In the end, Yuka watches the outside light grow dim and shuts the door when there is no one left to act miserable in front of. Yuka should be thankful for this visit, but what else has this been than a reminder of how utterly alone she is? It hurts.
Yuka has wheeled herself back to the dining room table when she manages to pry the bag open with the edge of her canines. The plastic tears softly and the letters spill out onto the wood grain. Yuka doesn’t bother counting—there must be enough to satisfy the days of the year. Perhaps even more.
Neat writing. No return address. Yuka slides her index finger beneath the letter adhesive and rips the papyrus flesh without care. This is her first mistake.
Yuka, the letter begins, although the writing is suddenly shaky and are those the ghosts of fallen tears? I wish I hadn’t fallen in love with you. But I have. I’m sorry.
Yuka sets the letter down. Has life always been this cruel? There is no way she can continue reading the letter. Not when she is unable to return these feelings that have been so hideously spread out in front of her.
“Yuka?”
If not for her lip-bitten sobs, perhaps Yuka would have heard the door open. Yatora comes through the front door anyways, the smell of alcohol thick on his skin. Ah, that smell. It’s sick. Yuka wants to take it and wrap the disgusting feeling around her bare shoulders.
“Yuka, what are you doing,” Yatora’s words come out muffled—but this may just be the pounding in Yuka’s head. He places a hand on her wrist. It’s cold.
“What…”
And if there are any more words exchanged between the two, Yuka can’t remember. But it is not as if she tries particularly hard to. The next morning, Yuka will wake up and the letters will be gone and Yatora will still have this twisted, charming grin on his face when he asks to share a breakfast together. And there will be no reason to remember. That is all.
The spring breeze is particularly forgiving today. The cotton-pink dress that Yuka wears sways gently with the wind, accenting the nearby cherry blossoms in the park. Had Yuka been any wiser, she’d have brought a hat to ward the sun and protect her hair. Regardless, the day is picture perfect. If this is all a dream, then Yuka hopes she may never wake up.
In her childhood, Yuka’s grandmother had taught her a way to preserve the petals of the cherry blossom tree to make a bittersweet tea. For a moment, the sight of a child nearby picking flowers from the trees reminds her of forgotten memories. But who is to say that this is fact or fiction? It would not be the first time Yuka has made up things for the sake of normalcy. Yuka can barely remember her own name on most days.
A few more minutes pass. Yuka shuffles back in forth, walking from end to end of the small strip of park that she’d agreed to meet in. How tedious. A woman should never be the first to arrive to a date, yet here she is.
“Yuka!”
Ah, speak of the devil. Yuka waits a moment—touches the top of her eyelid to make sure her eyelashes are curled all the way. This new mascara better hold up to its promises of an improved formula.
When Yuka turns around, windswept and flushed, she looks beautiful. Almost too beautiful, really, which lends to Yatora’s now-red face. The colour matches the bouquet of roses in his hands.
“Yuka…”
This is the moment she’s been waiting for.
“I wish I hadn’t fallen in love with you.”
What?
“But I have.”
This isn’t right.
“I’m-“
Yuka wakes up in a cold sweat. Strands of freshly-bleached hair stick to her face while the cheap dollar store fan whirs in the corner of the room. How apropos. When she looks outside, the sun is hardly out. A mess of grey clouds and stormed streets seems to make up for this lack of space. Can anyone really call this spring?
Another day alive means another day spent in the hospital’s rehabilitation ward. For the most part, Yuka doesn’t mind the repetitive schedule. Whatever can get her out of the apartment and into the open air (if only for a few minutes). But there’s something so suffocating about the hospital atmosphere. Yuka has since learnt to ignore the feeling. No more IVs, please. Please.
While the hospital staff is kind enough to provide transportation in the mornings, it’s the late evenings that prove to be difficult. During the hospital’s rush hour, Yuka has resorted to calling Yatora for help. It’s not the preferred method by any means, but Yatora tells Yuka that it’s not a big deal. He’s happy to do so, especially for such a dear friend of his. When had they become this close? Were they always this familiar? Yuka closes her eyes. Not these thoughts again.
In a sort of dreadfully paced daze, the day passes. Rehabilitation is a chore that no one seems to really talk about, although Yuka is sure she would have appreciated the honesty when she’d first started the program.
Yuka manages to wheel herself out of the ward without much hassle. On most days, Yatora will be sitting in the general waiting area, a sketchbook propped onto one knee, a pencil caught between his slender fingers. It’s during those moments that Yuka likes to make fun of herself. Yatora is a living artwork, whatever, whatever. She’ll save his praise for later.
Today is no different. Yatora is in the waiting room, yes, but who is that before him? And what are those piercing, intimate eyes?
Yuka stops in the middle of the hallway. The hospital staff can die for all she cares.
“-Yotasuke. You can’t say that-“
“You don’t know me like that, Yaguchi. You can’t dictate what I am allowed to say and what I’m not.”
The man before Yatora is short. A bit cute, if Yuka is to be honest. The look on his face, however, does not help this first impression.
Before Yuka can make any more out of the two’s conversation, Yatora suddenly pulls Yotasuke in for an embrace. Yuka feels sick to her stomach. One of Yatora’s hands curl around the side of Yotasuke’s shoulder.
“Stop,” Yotasuke pulls away, if not to save his quickly reddening expression. “Don’t do that here. Idiot.”
“Ah, I’m sorry. Force of habit, I guess… Oh, Yuka.”
There’s an obvious change in tone when Yuka finally makes her way to the waiting area. Yotasuke looks to the side. Yuka can’t really recall if she’d known him before her current memory.
“Sorry, Yotasuke. I’ve gotta get going now, but I’ll try to check up on you soon. Keep well… I guess.” Like instinct, Yatora takes Yuka’s wheelchair in his grasp and starts towards the exit. The action is so disgustingly domestic that Yuka thinks she may vomit. Yuka is as in love as she is jealous, it seems.
The ride home is silent. Yuka shivers when Yatora places a hand on her thigh when he reaches to help her out from the passenger seat. She winces when Yatora’s face is too close to hers when he goes to shut the elevator door. All of these little things—can’t Yatora see what he’s doing to her?
Yatora shuts the apartment door a few moments later. His arms are crossed as he leans against the entrance wall.
“Yuka, what’s wrong? You’re quieter than usual. You’d be chewing off my head for something stupid right about now.”
Is she supposed to answer that? Really?
“Yatora…”
“I won’t know unless you say something. Didn’t I tell you before, you can tell me anything. I wouldn’t lie-“
“Shut up. Shut up.” Yuka can feel Yatora’s eyes on the back of her neck. This damned wheelchair. “Just shut up, Yatora! You wouldn’t get it.”
“Yuka, what are you saying…” Yuka counts the number of steps Yatora takes from behind her. Eight. He places a hand on her arm. His breath traces the tip of her ear.
“You idiot… what if I said I loved you? Then what?”
“I…”
And for once, Yuka expects Yatora to lie to her. Because lying is easier than whatever painful truth must be itching to escape his throat, crawling its way through the ugly words that have kept themselves hidden for all these months. Yuka is a burden, a monster, a failure. What good comes from a woman who no one wants?
So when Yatora turns Yuka to the side and softly presses his lips against hers, Yuka can’t tell if it’s a lie. She can’t when Yatora tastes faintly of chamomile and honey. She can’t when he raises a hand to thumb away her tears. She can’t because when they break away, his lips are mouthing words in the shape of something so close to what she’s fantasised the most. Dreaded the most.
I’ve fallen for you, Yuka. I’m sorry.