Archive of Our Own

“Sometimes a person has to go a very long distance out of his way, 

To come back a short distance correctly.” 

— Edward Albee

The vending machine only had bottles of Cola in it. The iconic red striped with white lined up neatly in rows behind the plastic viewing panel; all cans empty for display. He could make a metaphor out of this, he supposed. Something about the herd mentality of opponent rappers, something about safety and chains in uniformity, something about being empty. He was dying for a Cola, but his funds had been tight this month; he could grab a Cola once he returned from — 

From where? What was he doing here again? 

He was waiting for a train. He was waiting for the train, a specific train he wanted to board and one that he had bought a ticket for; otherwise he would not have been standing at the platform. Get a grip, he admonished himself with a light slap to his cheek. He may have been overworked from that renovation job, but it was no excuse to space out so. At least Mrs. Satoru looked ecstatic about the tiles of her new bathroom, even if she couldn’t step on them for 48 hours. 

He cast his gaze about for something cheaper, but the only other vending machine in the vicinity was the one right next to the one full of Colas; and this one was for some reason full of melon bread. The usual original type; not even offering a variety of flavours like matcha, strawberry, or ‘unicorn swizzle' with it. Ichiro blanched at the memory of that particular melon bread, an item he had bought out of curiosity one afternoon post-information gathering, and came to regret as soon as the clashing colours greeted his tongue. The colourful loudness of it reminded him of Ramuda. 

Speaking of loudness… It was eerily quiet. For Ikebukuro station to be so tranquil was an oddity which beat a Kraken waltzing in Nagoya; it was certainly closer to an impossibility. What time was it? He strode purposefully around, instinctively noting the convex mirrors placed at the corners — a habit he had yet to break despite not being involved with the mafia anymore. The shops were closed; all of them. Flimsy metal shutters secured down tightly, the fluorescent lights bouncing off the metallic fettered surface. He cocked his head to the side, trying to recall the date. Was it a public holiday? He thought he had scheduled Mrs. Satoru’s job earlier than that; though granted he was so busy picking his way through a panoply of tiles to create the exact mosaic she wanted that his sense of time was skewered. Instead of the soporific expectation which came from such exertion, he only felt wired to the bone — he could ask but he doubted Jakurai would help prescribe him anything. All he could do was walk it off. That was why he was going wasn’t it? To walk it off. 

There it was, the clock which was bolted over the mouth of the cavernous tunnel. It was almost 12; the safety gates were open and the train was on its way. Something about the hands of the clock unnerved him, though they were only the standard black lines which carried out their life purpose by pointing to similarly black numerals. Only the second hand differed in red, but it ran at a pace faster than anyone else’s. He wondered briefly if they ever got tired trekking the same circle into eternity, before rummaging in his pocket for the ticket. There was something he wanted to double-check. Where am I going? The paper was white in his hand, tinted at the upper right edge with a pale blue and the holographic logo of the JR line. The character ‘Ikebukuro’ was printed neatly, followed by — By what? The words… the words were there, the black lines pressed onto the ticket but… why were they smudged like this? 

The hand on the clock creaked uncharacteristically, and the sonorous melody of a digitised ‘Für Elise’ echoed half-dead through the virtually empty station. Wait. He hastily stuffed the ticket back into his pocket, looked around for the usual sign which would indicate arrival and departures, but there was none. 

“Oi!” 

Ichiro whipped his head towards the sound of that voice. A man was rushing towards him from the end of the line at full speed; he backed away a few steps involuntarily. 

“Get away from there!” The reds of his eyes were deep and bloody — much more arresting than the red of Cola cans — and the white of his hair glowed with each pass of the fluorescent lights from above. 

A strangled ‘What?’ was killed in his throat before it managed to make an appearance, the other man’s loud shout of “Move! You fucking idiot! Move!” overpowered by the screech of the train hurling from the tunnel and the wind it whipped with its speed. Ichiro felt something yank him by the collar; and saw the man’s face distort into fear, into pain, into something like defeat; and the wind was biting; and — 

The vending machine only had bottles of Cola in it. The iconic red striped with white lined up neatly in rows behind the plastic viewing panel; all cans empty for display. He could make a metaphor out of this, he supposed. Something about mindless minds following the status quo, something about soldiers marching to their deaths, something about being empty. He was dying for a Cola, but his funds had been tight this month; he could grab a Cola once he returned from — 

From where? What was he doing here again? 

He was waiting for a train. He was waiting for the train, a specific train he wanted to board and one that he had bought a ticket for; otherwise he would not have been standing at the platform. The ticket, a voice which sounded like his own shouted at him in the recesses of his mind. He was too tired for this; Mrs. Satoru really worked him to the bone with that insanely detailed mosaic of ‘The Birth of Venus’ in her bathroom; for what purpose Ichiro didn’t know. Who wanted to look at a naked lady emerging from the sea in a shell while they were trying their hardest to squeeze out shit? 

The ticket, the voice in his head insisted — his voice, though it sounded oddly agitated. He rummaged in his pocket for the small slip of paper as he strode his way across the platform. The clock above the tunnel read eight minutes to 12, black hands still as the red second hand ticked merrily in a smooth arc. The paper was white in his hand, tinted at the upper right edge with a pale blue and the holographic logo of the JR line. The character ‘Ikebukuro’ was printed neatly, followed by — By what? The words were there, he was sure of it; there was no reason for them not to be. But they were smudged, as if someone had cried while scribbling in a notebook with a forced steady hand. He blinked furiously and rubbed at his eyes though Jakurai would have tutted at him. Wincing against the pain, he swivelled his gaze to the clock — yes he could still read that — but the characters on the ticket escaped him. What—? 

“Oi!” 

There was a man hurtling towards him from the end of the line — red eyes blazing and white hair messy underneath the unwavering fluorescent lights. Ichiro instinctively took a few steps back; the man looked like a bird of prey who had sighted its next meal. 

“The fuck?” Ichiro shouted as the man caught up to him and latched onto his arm with a claw of steel. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” 

Red eyes were wild with a cocktail of emotions Ichiro couldn’t and wouldn’t want to parse. “Listen!” The man hissed with a raw desperation. Ichiro tried to shrug him off, but he held on tighter with both hands. “LISTEN!” he roared, and Ichiro was half-worried about what the other people in the station may have thought of the scene; half-worried about the mental state of the person in front of him. 

“Okay, okay,” he placated, free arm suspended in the universal sign for surrender. “Whatever it is, I’m sure we can talk this out, alright? You don’t have to hurt anyone. You’ve got my attention.” 

A shadow like one of a bird’s flight across thin shoji flickered on the man’s face. “Get away from there,” he began tugging on Ichiro’s arm, away from the red and yellow lines separating the platform from the tracks. 

“I’ve got a train to catch—”

“You’re not getting on any train!” Pale hands dug harder into his arm like shackles. 

Ichiro stood his ground. Who was this crazy person? What did he want from him? “I need to go or else I’ll miss it!” came his mundane retort in an attempt to free himself from the other. He could’ve knocked him down, but that was a violence he promised himself to purge unless necessary. It was becoming increasingly necessary. 

“And where the fuck are you going?!” The man hurled, eyes wide and scared. The fear was out of place on his usually haughty features, marring their severe beauty. Usually? 

He was going somewhere to walk it off. He was going somewhere to release the tension which had been coiled up in him for the whole week while working on that goddamned mosaic. A week? No? It had been longer than that hadn’t it? The tension and pain had been there since… “To—”

The hand on the clock creaked uncharacteristically, and the sonorous melody of a digitised ‘Für Elise’ echoed half-dead through the virtually empty station. Wait. The hands on his arm revved up in urgency, tugging him violently away from the tracks — he stumbled but was righted immediately by a hand grasping the back of his hoodie. 

The monstrous screech of the train hurling from the tunnel and the wind it whipped with its speed. Ichiro felt something yank him by the collar; and saw the man’s face up close distort into fear, into pain, into something like defeat; and the wind was biting; and — 

“LISTEN!” he roared, and Ichiro was half-worried about what the other people in the station may have thought of the scene; half-worried about the mental state of the person in front of him. 

Who the hell was this crazy person? What the fuck did he want from him? He was tired beyond belief, but he couldn’t sleep. The strain on his eyes temporarily damaged his vision too — he couldn’t read the characters of his destination. “Get the fuck off of me,” he growled lowly, shoving the other man away. 

“You fucking brat,” the man spat; and Ichiro’s head throbbed with a headache which slammed into him without warning. His eyes burned with tears. Hands roughly latched onto his arm and shoulder, pulling him away from the tracks. 

“What the hell is your problem?!” He shoved at the man again, putting his whole weight into it — an inkling of satisfaction crawling past the undulating fog in his brain as the man fell onto his bottom — “Stay away from me.” 

Stark red eyes startled wide with hurt for a moment, but soon narrowed into slits of fire. “I’m trying to save your fucking life! Don’t be a stubborn idiot and get the fuck away from those fucking tracks!” 

“Look man, I don’t know what you’re on—” Ichiro jerked back as the man scrambled from his position on his floor to pounce at his arm, his pale fingertips wrapping around it like constrictor boas. Ichiro had had enough of this farce. “LET GO OF ME!” He twisted his arm out of the other’s grip, his sneakers scuffing on the raised bumps of the line on the platform, losing his balance — 

The hand on the clock creaked uncharacteristically, and the sonorous melody of a digitised ‘Für Elise’ echoed half-dead through the virtually empty station. The last thing he saw was the other man’s face, distorted into fear and desperation and defeat; his shout of ‘Ichiro!’ which he wanted urgently to respond with his own ‘Samatoki!’, familiar syllables which meant nothing and everything. 

He thought he felt the impact of the train on his outstretched arm. 

He did not consider himself a vandal out of all things, but if Samatoki had to look at that damned threesome of snickering baby owls in the shadow of a much older but no less mocking adult owl; he would gladly add ‘vandal’ to the list of things he should not have done but did not regret. As it was, he was already late, his internal body clock ticking away at the seconds — a skill that had been forcefully cultivated in him thanks to this shit. Like a competitor at the starting line of a track, he burst forth across the polished floor of the station, leaving the statues of the owls behind. East Exit, he chanted to himself in a frenzy, as if by doing so it would materialise in front of him and save him some distance. He had to get to Ichiro faster, he only had eight minutes. 

How the hell do you convince someone who didn’t know you that they were in danger? How many times had he failed? Samatoki dragged in ragged puffs of stale air as the scenery whizzed past him, blurs of green and red lights from vending machines and toll booths melded with the homogenous white of the station. He leaped over the barrier separating the outer station from the inner ones where the trains were, heart in his throat and stitch ignored in his side. He had to reach the platform  in time,  he only had eight minutes. 

How long had they been here? Why were they here? And how many times had he seen Ichiro die in  front of him? (He didn’t bother asking where they were; it was a hell he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy.) Whichever god or devil’s boredom constructed this twisted past time — he’d like to have a good talk with them by acquainting their face with his fist. It was the least they could extend; considering the burning trails of bile he still felt at the back of his throat when he saw Ichiro’s arm snap cleanly off, spinning through the air like that stupid bone from that stupid space movie. Samatoki batted the image away, his boots skidding on the floors as he turned another corner. It reminded him of looking for Nemu in the equally winding and impersonal halls of Chuouhku. It reminded him of a lot of things he failed at. 

There he was — bright red hoodie, head of dark hair craned downwards over that damned ticket in his hands, a ticket Samatoki never managed to read — he had to grab his attention, he had to save him, but Ichiro never recognised him, how was he going to save him if Ichiro thought he was a creep, it’ll be the repeat of the last round — 

“Oi!” his shout reverberated against the empty walls before he thought of his next move. Heterochromatic red and green eyes shot towards him immediately, stunned by the sudden breaking of silence. His boots scraped with a shrill squeak; there was magic in those eyes, or else there was magic in that beauty mark — Samatoki had never been able to escape. Not then, not now, and perhaps regardless if they kept on going like this, not ever. A husky laugh from a wrecked throat as they basked in snatching a win from the opponent, bright lights stripping their skin and even brighter eyes stripping the cages of his heart, the triumphant yet mellow curve of a smile which was unceremoniously toppled upside down but none other than himself — 

Amongst the rubble of regrets, he had somehow tripped upon the words he needed. He licked some moisture into his lips. “You fucking hypocrite, Yamada Ichiro!” he snarled with a wide grin, “I’ve wanted to see you again!” 

Dark brows knitted in confusion before a flickering shadow like wings passed over the other’s face. Instantly, his countenance morphed into the one which he habitually wore to face down whoever threatened the safety of those he treasured; his brothers, his friends, and once Samatoki. Ichiro’s levelled glare at him was nothing short of electrifying. “Samatoki,” he growled in return, his fingers crumpling the ticket in his hand (but Samatoki could only feel the ripples of relief at his recognition). “Why are you here?” 

Samatoki swallowed the snarky comeback of ‘It’s a train station you fucking idiot, why do you think I’m here?’ with visible effort, making Ichiro click his tongue as if he heard the unvoiced sentence after all. “Listen,” he accidentally bit his tongue, cursing. Ichiro raised an unimpressed brow which made Samatoki want to deck him in the face. “Listen,” he repeated, hands ready to grab onto Ichiro and haul him away. “I know it sounds crazy, but you’re in danger, and the first thing you need to do is get away from those fucking tracks.” 

“I’ve got a train to catch—”

“You’ve said that so many times now in that same fucking cadence—”

“What the fuck are you talking about—”

“LISTEN!” Samatoki roared as his hands found purchase on either side of Ichiro’s upper arms, curling tightly. Not now; that fucking idiot shouldn’t be stubborn now. “We’re trapped, alright? Take a look around, it’s fucking empty! There aren’t any people anywhere; it’s just us! I don’t know what the fuck is going on, but I know that I’ve seen it enough times, and I don’t need to fucking see it again!” 

Ichiro curled his lip in disgust as he tried to extricate himself from the hold. “See what? Trapped where? What the fuck are you on?” 

“YOU DIE!” the words burst out even through Samatoki’s gritted teeth, through his slipping grasp of control on the situation. The way Ichiro’s eyes widened would have been comical elsewhere, was the dim thought which flashed through his brain. He readjusted his hold and shook the other, willing the action to somehow dislodge him from his doggedness. 

“You die,” he wheezed, suddenly seized in an iron vice as the images flickered like the light wings of a bird. Of Ichiro’s body being obliterated against unforgiving metal. “You die again and again, and again.” He didn’t mean to laugh. His eyes were hot and he had to avert them for just a second. He curled a fist into the front of Ichiro’s hoodie, his nails nearly cutting through the cloth. He didn’t register when he had rested his bowed head lightly against a still warm sternum, the steady beating of a heart underneath. 

“Samatoki,” came Ichiro’s cautious voice and more cautious hands which planted themselves on his shoulders. “It’s okay. I’m not going to die.” 

Samatoki wanted to choke some sense into the other right there and then. Instead, he inhaled deeply (scent of generic cheap detergent, scent of salty sweat; Ichiro’s scent) and began to drag Ichiro from those accursed platform lines. 

“Stop pulling!” 

Samatoki ignored the angry yelp, focused on tugging him to safety. If he could get him far enough, if he could reach the damned wall on the other side — “Sorry,” he mumbled to Ichiro distractedly as he knocked in the back of his knees, taking advantage of his loss of balance to lift him up bodily into a half carry, and sprinted as fast as he could away from the death machine. 

“Samatoki!” Ichiro kicked, flailing and pushing towards gravity. 

“Shut up! I’m saving you!” Just a little more to go, he could almost touch the wall. “You’ll thank me later!” 

Whatever insult Ichiro had prepared was drowned out by the too familiar creak of a clock hand, and the droll melody of ‘Für Elise’ which reached into the whole station. The train screeched, the wail of a monster being awoken; and yes that was the wall, his hand was touching the wall, they were far away from that thing — 

He felt Ichiro being viciously yanked from his grasp before he registered the other’s panicked note of ‘Samatoki!’ 

He whipped around just in time to see a body being brutally mangled. 

“YOU DIE!” the words burst out even through Samatoki’s gritted teeth, through his slipping grasp of control on the situation.

“What are you going on about—”

“Would you just listen to me for once in your fucking life? Is that so hard? Why do you always have to be so fucking stubborn?” 

“I’m stubborn? Wow, okay Pot. Take a good look in the mirror before you start accusing yourself by accident.” 

“Fucking listen to me! We have to get out of here now. Now!” 

“You’re crazy. Fuck— fucking let go of me!” 

“You’re coming with me whether you like it or not.” 

Ichiro laughed derisively, lips curling. “Once maybe; but not now. Not after the shit you pulled.” 

“Later,” Samatoki churned out through his choler and trepidation. 

Ichiro dug his heels in. “No.” 

“For fuck’s sake—”

“I’ll never be trapped by you again,” Ichiro breathed into the diminished space between them, pressing their foreheads together. “Never again.” This close, Samatoki could only see the blurry deluge of melded red and green. “I’d rather die.” 

“Ichiro—!” 

‘Für Elise’ echoed half-dead through the virtually empty station. 

“Why do you always have to be so fucking stubborn?” Samatoki screamed past the puddle of blood pooling in his mouth, courtesy of a solid right hook. He continued shaking Ichiro by the collar, his knees digging into the ground and pinning the other there, mindful that they were far from the lines. Ichiro may have bulked up plenty, but Samatoki still knew some tricks to keep him down. He sank his teeth into the hand that slapped and pushed at his face, fingers precariously close to his eyes. “Fucking brat!” 

“Crazy bastard!” Ichiro screamed back into his face, voice resonant even with Samatoki’s forearm pressing against his throat. A blue black bruise had started to blossom on his occipital bone. Damn brat could never stay down. Ichiro kicked blindly, unwittingly shoving them closer across the floor to the tracks, but Samatoki pushed the other way to keep them still in place. 

“Let me save you!” He grappled with Ichiro’s free arm, pressing them chest to chest to fasten them to the floor. Whatever it was, if it couldn’t see Ichiro, if he was between Ichiro and the danger, then surely, surely, it would leave Ichiro alone. He clamped Ichiro’s wrists together. 

“Let go!” Ichiro kicked again, his knee embedding itself into Samatoki’s stomach, wedging them apart. The pain was sharp, but Samatoki of all people was used to pain. 

“Stay still!” 

Ichiro bit into the flesh which lay in the junction between Samatoki’s shoulder and neck, drawing vivid red drops of blood. Samatoki could feel the other’s threatening growls and harsh breaths travelling from that point of injury throughout his whole body. But it was nothing, it was nothing compared to the end result. If this meant saving Ichiro, he would take whatever was thrown his way. 

The ground rattled. This time, this time for sure — 

‘Für Elise’ echoed half-dead through the virtually empty station.

“Would you just listen to me for once in your fucking life? Just this once, and I promise to leave you alone hereafter.” Ichiro clamped his mouth shut, distrust and something else brewing behind his eyes. Samatoki took his ceasing of fidgets as a good sign. “You’re in danger. We’re stuck in some weird ass dimension, and you die, every time. That train,” he pointed like a madman towards the dense darkness of the tunnel, “hits you. Every time.” 

“I’m not even on the tracks,” Ichiro replied, eerily calm; though his shoulders tensed in response for a fight. 

“Doesn’t matter, something always pulls you right into its path like a fucking magnet.” The screech of the train Samatoki can never forget now; he pushed his bangs back with a suffering sigh. “We have to get out of here. I don’t know how far we need to run, but as long as it’s far enough that you aren’t yanked back like a marionette.” 

Ichiro stared at him for a beat. Then he laughed, high and loudly, head thrown back, arms curling around his stomach. His hand came up to shield his mouth, but the laughs were too strong to be contained, so the hand migrated to his eyes instead. When it was removed, his eyes reflected that odd admixture so often directed towards Samatoki these days — the one of anguished mirth, the one which he looked like he was always fighting to alchemise into indifference. “Is that your version of an apology?” 

‘Für Elise’ echoed half-dead through the virtually empty station.

“I don’t know how far we need to run, but as long as it’s far enough that you aren’t yanked back like a marionette. I’m not joking,” he added the latter hastily, Ichiro’s flat laughter still fluttering around in his ears. Between the unnatural melancholy and the screech of the train; he didn’t know which he preferred less. 

Ichiro seemed to force himself into a sober seriousness. “Okay,” he began tentatively. “Even assuming your story is true — I didn’t say it’s not,” he nipped Samatoki’s anger in the bud easily, “What would you propose we do? Run? Whatever it is, space and distance doesn’t seem to be a problem.” 

“So what is the problem?” Samatoki sighed impatiently. 

Ichiro cocked his head, a gesture of someone who didn’t seem nervous about his imminent death. “You said we’re trapped here—”

“Stop repeating things.” 

“— and it’s kinda like a loop situation,” Ichiro twirled his finger in the air, his rings glinting like stars under the lights. “The question is, a loop for whom though?” 

Samatoki clicked his tongue loudly, already tugging Ichiro by the sleeve away from the tracks and towards the far wall. “I’m the one who has to watch you die.” 

Ichiro grimaced, rubbing a hand at the back of his neck; the same old sheepish gesture Samatoki would recognise anywhere. “Sorry. Yeah, that. But…”

“But?” Samatoki prodded after too long a silence. 

Ichiro’s lips twisted, bars adapting to maintain the prison for his words. 

“Spit it out.” 

The sound Ichiro made was almost a whine of displeasure. “The death,” he said, astutely avoiding his own name and Samatoki’s gaze, “it’s a type of punishment isn’t it? The repetition is aimed at creating pain, grief, and eventually helplessness.” 

“That’s fucking obvious.” 

“So,” Ichiro paused, took a breath as he still cast his eyes to their shoes, the wall. “Does watching me—” he cut himself off, ran a brief slicing motion across his neck which Samatoki wanted to admonish him for, “is it punishing for you?” 

“What the fuck does that mean?” Samatoki spat, simultaneously enjoying and regretting the stunned jolt of Ichiro’s hand in his own. He tightened his hold. “You think I like watching you die?” 

“That’s not it—” Ichiro grumbled, rubbing his free hand down his face, his cheeks slightly flushed from frustration. “I mean, why me? If the goal is to torture you, then why use me?” 

“Who do you think it should’ve used?” Samatoki challenged, stepping right into Ichiro’s space, “Nemu?” 

“No!” came Ichiro’s immediate exclaim with furrowed brows, shoving but not managing to push Samatoki away. “You’re always like this,” he sneered, giving another shove, “you never listen and you jump to fucking conclusions like it’s an Olympic sport.”  

“I always listen.” 

Ichiro laughed flatly. He shot him a pointed look, one that reminded them both of what occurred to crack open a chasm between them. “No, no you don’t.” 

He hated pitiful contrition, but it settled in his gut now with the assurance of an experienced homemaker. He had never meant for it all to happen. Even now, he still chased the tattered remains of those halcyon days. He wasn’t lying when he said he wanted to see him. “I’m listening now.” 

“Are you?” 

‘Für Elise’ echoed half-dead through the virtually empty station.

“I mean, why me? If the goal is to torture you, then why use me?” 

He could feel the ticking of the seconds without needing to look at the smooth red needle, but the words he had drowned so long ago were taking their sweet time to resurface. He pierced his tongue to hasten their arrival. “You’ve watched so much anime; isn’t it obvious?” Ichiro bristled at his area of expertise being mocked. Like a cat, Samatoki’s mind unhelpfully supplied. Like a cute stray cat. 

“Because I love you.” 

“Oh,” came Ichiro’s soft reply, eyes wide, face clear, hand crushing Samatoki’s own; but only for a moment. The radiance dimmed, the resentment reappeared. “You don’t have to say that,” teeth peeked out to sink into a plush lip. “Anyway, it didn’t work did it? We’re not free just because you said that.” 

Samatoki groaned in distress, bashing his forehead with their joined hands. “I’m saying it because it’s true!” Ichiro’s fingers spasmed in his, the motion a microcosm of their choppy bond. The warmth of Ichiro’s hand was a godsend. “I love you,” he repeated into that hand, though he resented repetition now. “I love you,” he repeated, willing the words to crash like a wave into the intruding images of metal and tracks and a body being thrown into the air; to wash them away and leave nothing but this love behind. 

“Samatoki…” Ichiro’s voice was gentle, the hand which alighted on Samatoki’s bowed head was even gentler. 

Samatoki soaked it up, the warmth of it all. “I can’t,” his voice snagged, and he was aware that his nose was becoming clogged, that the tears were hot behind his eyelids. “I can’t watch you die again.” How could he ever beg for forgiveness? How could he have ever embroiled Ichiro in this, whatever this was? Ichiro was kind, Ichiro was steadfast, Ichiro was good. He didn’t deserve any of this. “I’d release you from this hell if I could, but I can’t. I’m sorry, but I tried, and I can’t.” 

He felt the pressure of lips upon his brow, steady and insistent. “You can,” Ichiro’s breath ghosted across his forehead, down his nose and cheeks. “I believe in you.” 

Samatoki snorted, ignoring the wetness of it. “Wrong horse to bet on.” The curve of Ichiro’s smile broke out against his skin. 

“You’re the only one I want.” 

‘Für Elise’ echoed half-dead through the virtually empty station.

The main problem was getting Ichiro to recognise him and acknowledge that he was trying to save him; it took too long. By the time he had hesitantly listened to him, the eight minutes were up, and Samatoki was left powerless but to spectate again. He had another two turns until the platform to figure out what to do. 

Something visceral. Something that would make him trust me instantly. He jumped over the barriers, nearly snagging his shirt on one of them. Something buried deep. The warmth of Ichiro’s hands before he was yanked away lingered on his skin. The terror of his eyes even though he knew what was coming seared itself into Samatoki’s brain. His own uselessness reflected back at him in pools of red and green. 

‘I believe in you’, rang the clear voice, resolute and trusting, just like those days. Samatoki couldn’t let him down now. 

There he was — bright red hoodie, head of dark hair craned downwards over that ticket in his hands. Samatoki didn’t deign to waste his breath; he ran right up to Ichiro, catching him by the upper arms and spinning him around to face him despite the other’s energetic protests. 

“Ichiro,” he enunciated clearly, staring into the other’s eyes. He hoped that this would work. “Ichiro, selling your soul piece by piece is cheap, isn’t it?” His breath hitched as the clouds scudded from Ichiro’s visage, replaced by a tentative clarity. “Don’t do it. It’s your life.” He thumped a fist into Ichiro’s chest, where his heart lay beneath it. “Yours, and no one else’s.” 

Ichiro’s brows and lips trembled. “Samatoki… -san?” 

“Yeah,” Samatoki huffed in relief, a potent drug coursing through his system and threatening to steal the rush of adrenaline from his legs. His throat felt like a bee had stung it. “And drop the -san. It makes me sound old.” 

Ichiro’s confused splutter of ‘What?’ was overshadowed by his louder but unintelligible splutter of confusion as Samatoki reached out to cradle his head in his hands, and press a kiss to his lips. “Samatoki—!” came Ichiro’s mumbled gasp, his hands curling around the other’s wrists. 

Samatoki gave those plush lips a final nip before pulling away, relishing momentarily in the other’s dazed look. “Ichiro, do you trust me?” 

Ichiro snapped out of it, eyes narrowing. “Not as far as I can throw you—”

“Ichiro.” 

“Depending on the situation—”

“Ichiro!” he slapped his hands lightly against his cheeks, earning a glower. The fault was on him, it was the wrong question to ask. “Trust me,” he pleaded. “I’m sorry for everything I did, but right now, you’re in danger. I can’t do it alone;  so help me save you.” 

“What?” 

“I’ll explain on the way,” Samatoki tugged Ichiro forwards, away from the tracks, giving him the briefest explanation he could as he darted around to propel them further and further from the platform, searching for the exit. 

“Wait,” Ichiro stopped, their linked hands stretched but unbroken. He pointed to a set of four steep escalators all going up, and the faint yellow glow which looked like sunlight streaming in from the top. He nodded to the sign above the escalators, pristine and factory approved. “Isn’t this the East Exit?” 

“And?” Samatoki prodded, feet already taking him towards the escalators, to freedom. 

Ichiro remained unmoving. With their linked hands, he pointed to something else. “So why are the Ikefukuro here?”

Indeed, the three owlets and the larger owl statues were perched on a rack right beside the entrance to the escalators, staring. Samatoki felt something slimy pour itself down his spine; he quickly shuffled to stand between Ichiro and the statues; but they did nothing. The seconds were ticking by. Samatoki nodded to the escalators, and Ichiro nodded back. 

Their feet boarded hesitantly, but their hearts lightened as the view of the white polished station floors gradually receded in the distance. The owls too, were unmoving. 

“What was that about?” 

“Punishment? Hell?” Samatoki shrugged, the tension starting to relax from the line of his shoulders. In his hand, Ichiro’s was warm. “Whatever it is, I don’t wanna remember.” 

Ichiro pulled him close by their hands, and pecked his lips playfully. With lips still hovering against his, “Not even this?” 

“This can stay,” he said and meant it. He deepened the kiss properly, his free hand caressing Ichiro’s cheek. His eyelids fluttered as they were assaulted by the increasing strength of the light. “Later,” he promised, even as he ducked back in for another kiss. 

Ichiro gave a soft whine of displeasure as the other pulled away. “This doesn’t solve everything.” 

“No,” Samatoki agreed, his fingers finding new skin to touch every few strokes; his cheek, his ear, his nose, his lips. “Later,” he promised again. His eyes glittered with too many emotions. When he spoke, it was uncharacteristically gentle yet cautious, “I’m not going anywhere, so you don’t either. Okay?” 

“Okay,” Ichiro vowed, nuzzling into the other’s hand, kissing the palm as a pledge. 

“Okay,” Samatoki parroted and smiled back, pulling Ichiro along with him. “Let’s go.” His feet hit what felt like pavement; they had made it. 

‘Für Elise’ echoed half-dead through the virtually empty station.

Samatoki’s nerves were set on fire, then dunked into ice. The hand in his was no longer there. It was no longer warm. He watched with a dissociated distance as Ichiro’s body was flung by the invisible hand down the steep steps of the escalator, bouncing off some like a child’s discarded ball. Samatoki’s own heart jumping further down into his body with every hit, as Ichiro was sent tumbling the rest of the way down. He reached the foot of the escalator with a bloodless crack, his neck bent the wrong way. 

Samatoki couldn’t breathe enough for a scream. 

What was the point? They couldn’t escape no matter how hard they tried. He just didn’t understand how trapped they really were before he started trying. Maybe he isn’t even the real Ichiro. Maybe you hit your head and this is all a hallucination. Maybe you’re dead, and this is your personal hell. Samatoki dug his fingers harshly into closed eyes. He wished it were all true. 

He had made his way sluggishly to the bench: nondescript, a perfectly uncomfortable piece of metal overlooking the tracks. He had done so on automatic, he had done so because he was a masochist, a repenter, an idiot in love. He had done so because he felt responsible, because he was responsible. If he couldn’t do anything, then he should witness; no matter how much of him was already dead. 

He itches from head to toe for his cigarettes, but every time he tried to light one, the fire was put out. He wants a cup of coffee hot enough to numb his senses, but all the vending machines supplied only Colas and melon bread which couldn’t be bought. He wanted to damage something, anything, especially those fucking owl statues; but whatever he punched with his whole might only caught his anger in a mitt, warping around his fist and springing back to their original shapes. He had tried a few times to die, to jump in front of the train before Ichiro, pushing him out of the way just in time without reminding him of any names; but he was plucked from even that reprieve, and spawned back in front of the owl statues every time. There was no such thing as escape. 

‘Für Elise’ echoed half-dead through the virtually empty station. The screech of the train no longer grates on him, it’s like the pong of garbage after you’ve stood next to it for a time; you force yourself not to acknowledge it’s there. He screws his eyes shut, but admonishes himself to open them again, to witness, to acknowledge his faults, to see Ichiro until the end — 

The train hits the body and it starts all over again. 

“I’ll be good,” he begs, imitating the pose he had seen others do so often in front of him as he smoked languidly. Clasped hands akimbo, head bowed; he digs his knees harder into the polished floor, non-pliant according to its whims. “I’ll be good. I’ll love the world even if it doesn’t love me; even if it’s not worth loving.” The statues of owls seemed to crane their necks down to him. “I’ll repay my debts, all the lives I broke, all the hope I killed, all the things I’ve done; I’ll atone! I’ll repent! I’ll suffer for it all! So—!”

“Please,” he begs again, falling forwards onto the floor, head inflamed against the cool tiles. “Please don’t let him suffer for what I did. Punish me. Hurt me. Stop hurting him. He doesn’t deserve this.” 

The owls remained unblinking. 

“Let him go! I’ll do whatever you want!” The hoarseness of his voice cracked, glass splinters shattering further. “Please…just let him go…” 

The owls remained silent. 

‘Für Elise’ echoed half-dead through the virtually empty station. He doesn’t need to be there to hear the body thud. 

“Are you okay?” 

Go away, Samatoki wants to say, to shout, to scream. Leave me alone. His hands shake uncontrollably, mini earthquakes even as they are sandwiched between his thighs and the cold metal of the bench. He doesn’t think he has anything left in him to puke out, but the nausea won’t leave him. He can’t look into those heterochromatic eyes, because he knows he will crumple instantaneously again. 

“Sir?” Ichiro’s voice is cautious but gentle, even to a stranger. His hand lands on Samatoki’s trembling shoulder, steadying. Wordlessly, he rummages in those insanely large pockets of his and pulls out a handkerchief, timidly handing it to Samatoki; but Samatoki shakes his head through the trickle of tears already soaking his neck. 

Ichiro kneels down in from of him, eyes big with worry but tinged with confusion, as if trying to solve some invisible sum. “Sir? Do you need me to call someone?” Ichiro’s always good this way; he helps anyone, he saves everyone. Wasn’t this the goodness that Samatoki resolved himself to protect? Yet he had failed, again and again and again. 

Samatoki shakes his head repeatedly, blocking his view of an angel with the sin coating his hands. If he cut open his veins now, what would he find there except the dark proof of his wrongs? He can feel the purse of Ichiro’s lips, can see the concern etched in his brow as clear as day without looking. “I’m fine,” he wrestles the words out of his throat, jagged and cutting all the way. They are ejected in a broken heap at Ichiro’s feet. The hand on his shoulder tightens minutely. It leaves, and Samatoki misses it with a hunger unknown to even deserted bastards. 

The sound of a clicking pen and the crisp tear of paper. Softly, hands rested against his own and opened them to the world, urging the scrap of paper into his palms. Ichiro’s writing, still a bit childish yet bold and confident. Ichiro’s number, a string of symbols he had memorised by the first time he heard it. It made what was left of his heart ache. He could barely sound out the word “Why?”

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Ichiro said warily, “but it looks like you need help. And if I can help in any way then…” he trailed off, jutted a chin pointedly at the scrawled number. 

Ah, he’s so good. “You don’t know me,” Samatoki said instead through his pathetic sniffles. 

Ichiro cocked his head to the side. “I know this may sound weird,” he began, “but you—” His eyes which Samatoki would willingly drown himself in, his lips which Samatoki had tainted but he had no memory of. “…You don’t feel like a stranger,” he finished, and colour flushed into his cheeks at self-realisation of how lame it sounded. 

How much Samatoki wanted to wrap him into an embrace right there. How much he wanted to die in Ichiro’s stead if it meant the younger would be freed. “Maybe I should have been,” he whispers as he traces the blue ink of the numbers. 

“Nah,” says Ichiro easily, brightly, like nothing can mar his optimistic outlook in life. He has always been the best of them. “I’m glad we met.” 

Samatoki scoffs, Ichiro frowns. “You,” Samatoki says, accusatory. “You don’t even know me.” 

“No,” Ichiro agrees, holding out his hand. “But I know you’re not a bad person.” That smile, that unassuming and sincere smile. How could Samatoki ever give up on him? “My name is Yamada Ichiro. Nice to meet you.” 

‘Für Elise’ echoes half-dead through the virtually empty station; and he is robbed even of that introduction. 

The vending machine only had bottles of Cola in it. The iconic red striped with white lined up neatly in rows behind the plastic viewing panel; all cans empty for display. He could make a metaphor out of this, he supposed. 

But what could he say? Ichiro scratched the back of his neck, then pressed two fingers to his temple. That was odd, he usually could conjure up something, but it was hard to today. Maybe he was tired. He had Mrs. Satoru’s newly-tiled bathroom to thank for that. He cast his gaze like a net around the station in ennui. Eerily quiet, perhaps it was a public holiday? 

He rummaged in his pocket for the ticket. There was something he wanted to double-check. Where am I going? The paper was white in his hand, tinted at the upper right edge with a pale blue and the holographic logo of the JR line. The character ‘Ikebukuro’ was printed neatly, followed by — By what?

His first thought was that someone had cried while handing him the ticket, so smudged were the characters that he could not make them out; but that was ridiculous, the tickets are dispensed by machines. Was there a leak? He brushed his thumb over the fault. No, it did not seem like an ink leak, and the machines didn’t have water in them; he had repaired a couple before, he should know. Then what was this? 

Where are you going? rang a voice in his head, his own voice. Where are you going? it rang again; though not his, a raspier and reedier voice, like someone who smoked too much, or someone who screeched in a shrill a lot — Ichiro dropped the ticket, blearily registering its dainty flutter to the ground as a sharp arrow of pain speared through his skull. 

Where are you going? repeated the voice. 

Where are you going?

Where are you going?

Ichiro clasped his ears tightly to his head as he crouched down to abate some of the nausea. I don’t know. Stop asking me. I don’t know. 

Where are you going?

“I said I don’t know!” He caught himself immediately, clapping a palm to his mouth, an apology ready at his lips; but there was no one around him. He hung his head between his arms, blocking out the world as he did when he was too young ago, though there wasn’t any external force around him. For some reason, he wanted to cry. 

“Hey,” comes a voice above him, different from the one in his ears. He jerks up with a start and scrambles to stand. The man in front of him looks haggard — no, haunted — his ruby eyes lacking lustre and his hair matted with sweat. But there was something in his deportment which spoke of conviction. He clenches his jaw, “You don’t know me right now, but that’s okay. Listen, you need to get out of here.” 

The headache skips merrily, increasing in intensity, fogging up his brain. Who was this person? You recognise him, the voice taunts. You know him. Ichiro bites his tongue to have it functioning again. “I can’t, I’m going somewhere.” 

“Where are you going?” Where are you going?

Ichiro fights his blanch at the superimposed voices down. He digs his nails into his palms, but he can’t answer. He wants to ask ‘Who are you’, but he feels like he has lost control over his voice and his thoughts. “I don’t know,” he confesses, and is immediately ashamed. 

The man’s eyebrows arch elegantly into his nest of white hair. “You don’t know?” he repeats, and Ichiro irrationally wanted to smack him for imitating his words without a solution. Instead, he shakes his head, feeling like the child he was when he had first left, toting Jiro and Saburo around in the stations, trying to read the myriad of coloured lines on the maps to figure out where to go next. The man steps forward slowly, hesitantly, as if afraid of scaring him off. Ichiro should back away, but he finds that he doesn’t want to. “May I see your ticket?” 

It is difficult to unclamp his fingers from their position, but he does. He picks up the ticket from the ground, next to his sneaker, and passes it to the man. Their fingers brush, and his blood tingles. The man looks surprised at the words. “Your destination… it’s smeared.” Ruby eyes bore into him, searching, searching. Something cracks open over the man, some idea or epiphany; Ichiro can see the way it illuminates his face, and his headache grows stronger. 

“Ich—”, the man stops himself, his half syllable a scythe driven into Ichiro’s brain. Ichiro’s hands fly up to his ears, pressing down hard. The man is shocked and worried. “What’s wrong? What’s the matter?” he frantically asks, hands hovering above Ichiro’s, as if afraid of touching something fragile. Ichiro screws his eyes shut against the waves of pain, the ringing in his ears whittled sharper and sharper. 

Hands cover his own; the man’s hands. When Ichiro opens his eyes, all he can see is the red in front of him, and the white which frames it. It looks like blood, the voice trills. It has always looked like blood, hasn’t it, Ichiro? But that never stopped you— 

“Shut up!” Ichiro shouts, the man’s hands retracting as if burnt, the hurt on his face too raw for Ichiro to digest in his current state. He wants to apologise, to say it was not the man’s fault, but the voice in his head continues steadily onwards, flickering here and there with stealth. Where are you going Ichiro? Where did you buy a ticket to? Why didn’t you want to go? Why did you stay? 

“I don’t know! I don’t know!” Ichiro feels the force of his voice tearing through his throat, but he can’t hear it. The darkness of the tracks draws him in; it looks peaceful and quiet there. He merely needs to take a few steps— 

An arm snakes around his torso and violently pulls him back behind the lines of the platform; Ichiro stumbles onto his knees, scraping them against the floor. The man’s face appears in front of him as he crouches too, panicked and haunted and sad. So sad. Sadness did not look good on him, sadness never did grant his features the beauty it deserved; he was much more beautiful when he smiled. Ichiro shakes his head for two things: he can’t hear the man’s voice, and he doesn’t know who he is though he feels as if he should. 

The man cradles his face, and presses their foreheads together. One of his hands wedges between them, closing Ichiro’s eyes. It is dark, with slits of light. It isn’t any less noisy, but he can hear the man’s voice now. It takes a few moments to understand that the crackly quality isn’t from the headache, but the man’s own pain. 

“Ichiro,” he calls. 

“Ichiro,” he pleads. 

“Ichiro,” he prays. 

Ichiro feels the hot dampness of his tears as they slide down his face, gathering in big drops at the bottom of the hand across his eyes before becoming too heavy, then falling into the nether. He leans back to relieve some of the pain, expecting air, but an arm bolsters his neck, and he slumps on it heavily. He hears quiet shushing in an attempt to soothe, and he feels the warmth of the other’s body against his. It grounds him, but it also assaults. 

“Samatoki-san?” he calls; the flashing vignettes of their happiest days, of his admiration, of his budding and careful love. 

“Samatoki?” he pleads; the same way he did sprawled on the ground back then, the same way he did when they met again. 

“Samatoki?” he prays; hands blindly seeking purchase on the shirt in front of him, latching themselves there and hoping the person in front of him is the person whom he is scared to want the most. 

The ghost of a breath fanning across his face. “I’m here,” Samatoki whispers between them, curling his arm around Ichiro tighter. “I’m here,” he repeats, as Ichiro pries his hand away with his own shaking ones; his eyes bright with tears and realisation. 

The first sight of Samatoki hammers his heart into place, temporarily burning away the pain. The second glance sends him hurtling forwards, puking nothing but ugly yellow splotches of bile as he is bombarded with it all; all the failed instances with him dying. He can’t breathe through the tears and the snot and the vomit, his nails claw at the floor wretchedly until they meet flesh; until Samatoki has stopped trying to run a soothing hand up and down his back and has instead scooped Ichiro into an embrace by the torso, pulling him into his lap. 

He reassures him in soft tones, even as Ichiro delves his nails into his arm. He wipes away the tears  and snot as best as he can, pressing his cheek into Ichiro’s hair as the younger dry-hurls again and again. “It’s okay,” he soothes, “Nothing will hurt you. I swear it. You’re safe.” 

Ichiro shakes his head, the ringing still intense in his ears. “Eight minutes,” he croaks, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “They’re almost up, right?” A fresh wave of tears crashes over him, and he can’t stop it. He tries successfully to hide them in his hand, but his words would not be equally restrained. “I don’t want to die! I don’t want to die again!” 

“Ichiro,” Samatoki says fiercely as he tightens the embrace, knowing he cannot promise that; but that he can try. “Ichiro please, I think I know how to leave this place. But I need your help, okay? I can’t do this alone.” Ichiro nods against him, and he loosens his hold to bring them face to face. Ichiro’s whole visage is red and dirty, but Samatoki is sure he isn’t looking any better himself. “Your ticket,” he stabs at the paper on the ground, pulling it towards them by the finger and pinching it up. “If you remember where you were going maybe, maybe, we can escape from this.” 

Ichiro blinks to clear his vision and stares hard at the paper despite his pain. “I don’t know,” he stutters. “I don’t remember.” 

Samatoki encases the other’s hands in his own, the ticket sticking up between them, saying nothing. He smiles at Ichiro softly, “It’s okay, I’ll be here. Take your time.” 

Do you even have time? the voice yawns. Tick tock, tick tock, Ichiro. Haven’t you made a fool out of yourself enough already? Haven’t you lied enough? 

Ichiro swallows down the nausea. What was he doing after Mrs. Satoru’s? He was hungry, it was lunchtime. Jiro and Saburo were still in school, so he could eat out. He suddenly craved Chinese cuisine. He suddenly remembered the tart taste of cigarette smoke amidst spicy chilli sauces. He suddenly wanted and didn’t want to relive the ghost of those feelings in a place which he was no longer welcome. He wanted and didn’t want to chance upon the person he loved so much, it hurt that he could never have him. 

“Yokohama,” he choked out. “I was going to Yokohama.” 

A shadow like wingbeats flickered across Samatoki’s face in partial understanding. “For a job?” 

“Yes,” he said. “No,” he confessed. Ichiro averted his gaze, the recollection of his own oscillation on the platform beamed right back into the theatre of his mind. How he had crumpled that ticket in the pocket of his jeans as the train pulled away from the station. How he had missed it on purpose, and how empty he had felt standing there uselessly. Still lying? “I was hoping to see you,” he swallowed past the lump in his throat, focusing on the reds of his sneakers. “I was afraid of seeing you too.” 

Samatoki frees a hand to lift Ichiro’s eyes to his own. “And now?” 

“And now what?” 

“You’ve seen me.” Samatoki’s lips curl into a roguish grin smoothened at the edges, “Are you still afraid?” 

Well, the voice demands with its metaphorical arms crossed, are you? 

“No,” Ichiro replies, meaning it; and with each exhale the pain recedes like the waves at low tide. 

“For the record,” Samatoki brushes his thumbs tenderly across Ichiro’s cheekbones, “I was scared of seeing you too; but I couldn’t stop wanting to.” He plants a loving kiss to Ichiro’s brow. “I’ll never stop wanting to see you.” 

‘Für Elise’ echoes half-dead through the virtually empty station. They jump out of their skins, hearts jerked and racing. 

“Shit,” Samatoki curses, looking around frenetically and cursing again when they were still trapped in the empty station. “Fuck, I was so fucking sure this would work.” 

When he looks back at Ichiro, with an apology that was already half-formed, the shrill voice laughs. It made Ichiro’s blood boil. The annoying digital chime pissed him off more, coupled with the screech of the train as it approached. The voice got one thing right; he had had enough of this. Something else might work, even as his body protested against it, even as his heart lurched at the mere suggestion. But Samatoki is here, Samatoki would be with him every step of the way. 

We can take on the world; as long as I have you by my side. 

Those dusty words used as a refrain in so many of their matches — shone once again. 

“Trust me?” he pleads, though he didn’t need to. Samatoki nods, and takes the hand Ichiro offers. They pull each other up and walk rapidly to the edge of the platform, staring down at the darkness below. 

The wind whips around them, tousling their hair into nests. He turns to Samatoki, and wraps him in a hug, receiving one back. Nose to nose, heart to heart; he felt two sets of beats palpitating in tandem, and he wanted to soar. “Ready?” he asks, as the cone lights of the train brighten the dark. Samatoki laughs, loud and carefree; a sound Ichiro wants to hear for the rest of his life. “Always.” 

They pitch sideways together, and they jump. 

His bruised knees skidding against the floor once again is not so much painful as it is a nuisance. Ichiro gasps for breath, adrenaline still pumping through his veins as he and Samatoki land in an unruly heap at the platform, disturbing the people around them. “Sorry!” he apologises loudly to the crowd as he pulls Samatoki up, the other not bothering to bow his head to the other commuters who must have assumed they fell from the push of the crowd. “Sorry!” Ichiro repeats, swimming against the flow, towing Samatoki with him. 

They are spit out unceremoniously by the organism of the crowd trying to sardine themselves into the train cars, narrowly falling down again. Ichiro steadies them both with a palm on a pillar, Samatoki grumbling about a lack of manners which Ichiro rolls his eyes at. The train doors close, the safety gates with them, and the train pulls away. Samatoki tenses visibly, his hand tightening against Ichiro’s own in a death grip; but Ichiro cannot deny both of them this. They wait until the winds have died down. 

The clock reads that it is almost 5pm, but underground the lights are the same uniform white they have always been; and Ichiro yearns to see the sun before it dissolves completely into the dark of night. “Come on,” he urges with a tug at their linked hands. He threads a path through the crowds of people, avoiding bags and umbrellas and stray elbows with practiced ease. He navigates them towards the East Exit, but Samatoki stops them once on the way, to stare at the statues of the owls. Three owlets and an adult owl. Unmoving, unblinking, unhearing. A group of high schoolers snap a picture of the statues with a dazzling flash, but nothing happens. Ichiro drags him away to the escalators. Their hands don’t leave their tight embrace. 

The warm orange sunlight which spills generously onto their faces as they alight from the escalator bleeds into them like fire, scorching away the film of horrors. Ichiro breathes, and takes another breath for good measure to relish it; ignoring the wafts of perfume and cologne and sweat of passersby. 

Samatoki’s shoulder bumps against his own. “Still going to ‘Hama?” 

“No,” he replies. “Not today.” The sun was melting into the sky, reds dissipating like empyrean mist. “You?” 

Samatoki shrugs, extracting his crushed packed of cigarettes from his back pocket. Ichiro was ready to silence his retort (they deserved their own vices after that ordeal), but Samatoki didn’t light one; he tosses the box breezily behind him, and Ichiro amazes at its landing into the decorative bushes. Samatoki cuts his eyes towards him, daring him to say anything. 

A clock chimes — blissfully not ‘Für Elise’ — but their hands clutch tighter anyway until the five knells subside. 

It is late. Jiro and Saburo would have been home by now, and if Ichiro remembers right, it was Friday. They always have curry on Fridays. He battles his inner involuntary complaint as he slowly untangles his fingers. “Well, I’m gonna head this way,” he points limply to the direction of his home; though half of it felt like it was standing next to him. He lifts their hands; his already coming loose while Samatoki’s still grappled on. “I’ll need this back.” 

Samatoki clicks his tongue, erasing their distance by leaning in, his voice smoky even without the cigarettes. “What makes you think I’m ever letting go again?” 

Ichiro swallows, and blushes at Samatoki’s knowing grin. “Come over for dinner?” 

“If you’ll let me.” 

“I’m already inviting you,” he snorted, rolling his eyes. Samatoki’s unfettered laugh made his heart seize. 

“It’s early, but sure. Why not?” 

Ichiro rewound their hands together, enjoining them, swinging them slightly despite some stray stares. “Don’t think you can dodge from prep work,” he said sternly, “you’re pitching in.” 

Samatoki grouched something along the lines of ‘demanding’, but returned with swings of his own. 

As they left, a sirocco swirled past them, carrying faint hoots. 

“This isn’t my first time here. This isn’t my last time here. 

These aren’t the last words I’ll share. 

But just in case, 

I’m trying my hardest to get it right this time around.” 

— Sarah Kay