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bebacebe · 5 months ago

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not even joking when i say this is probably the best sanzu fic i’ve read

safe in your skin — s. haruchiyo

content. fem!reader, timeline 0 spoilers, unhealthy relationships, suicidal ideation, implied／references to substance abuse, unhealthy coping habits, mild sexual content, unreliable narrators

word count. 12.3k

note. the original timeline has been stuck in my head for a long time, ever since it was first mentioned. . i think it is the saddest timeline :c

despite the tags, i think this piece is quite gentle ? sanzu is very soft in this, but in his own way !!

Here lies his grave. Soon, Haruchiyo will make this his home.

The metal bar is uncomfortably hot against Haruchiyo’s hand, the feeling of blood dripping down from the way his fingernails dig more and more into his reddened palms, the moisture makes his hold on the rail loosen.

If he falls from here, he would probably die, he hopes.

Just like Shinichiro-kun, he prays.

It has been five years since Manjiro and Shinichiro have passed. Their deaths — since those cold funerals. A lump forms in his throat as the tightness in his chest refuses to loosen. The realisation that they’ll never come back to him hits him once again. It comes as a surprise to him that he’s still alive, without them — if he can even call this being alive.

If he were to let go right now, he’d die, or he’d survive and be in a coma if he’s (un)lucky. Society has no use for a useless person like him — an unwanted boy, he has been reminded of this many times before. He has no family, he’s been in and out of juvie twice already, and he has never had a legal job (no place would willingly hire someone like him, at least for legal purposes). Nobody willingly wants to be around a teenage dirtbag with an ongoing criminal record. He keeps his hands dirty just to keep surviving — for what, though? He would be doing society a nice favour if he were to remove himself from it.

Haruchiyo only wants to see the two of them again, to see the rising sun, the only remedy to relieve him of this emptiness—

“Oi, don’t even think of fuckin’ letting go.”

Oh, Baji. . .

(His prayers are not met, forever denied, just like they always have been.)

Haruchiyo lifts up his head, throwing Keisuke a spare glance. Sharp eyes noting that he doesn’t look or sound too happy. It’s obvious in the way Keisuke’s dark brows appear frowned more than usual, lips pursed with rough hands curled up into tight fists. There’s fresh blood smeared on Keisuke’s knuckles, he is bleeding, too. He must’ve gotten into a fight earlier, Haruchiyo thinks, he is quick to assume. Keisuke is always like that, he has always been.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? You never showed up to the cemetery.” Keisuke’s words are sharp, like they always have been. His tongue has never once not been sharp — cutting into places Haruchiyo doesn’t want to feel. There is a lot wrong with him, Haruchiyo knows he has problems that he doesn’t want to acknowledge or accept, but he also knows that Keisuke didn’t mean it in a literal sense (not this time at least). “I waited an hour for ya.”

“I messaged you earlier, said I was gonna be late.”

“I don’t like using my phone, you know this. You should’ve called instead. I thought you were at home shooting it up or somethin’.”

“Was that supposed to be a joke? It sucked.”

“No,” Keisuke replies. “It wasn’t one.”

It’s hard for Haruchiyo not to roll his eyes at the assumption — the accusation. Keisuke acts faster than he thinks, harshly grabbing Haruchiyo’s forearm, and he winces at the sudden movement. It will leave a bruise on his pale skin; he’s always easily bruised. He sighs, grip tightening against the bar as he hops back over — back to Keisuke's side, to the side of the living. Reaching into his sweater pockets, he notices that his handkerchief is missing.

(This fact makes him notice that the cuts from his nails sting a lot — they don’t hurt as much as the wounds he receives from street brawls, or the sparring lessons he once took as a kid, back at the Sano house, but he’s still hurting. Hopefully these light cuts don’t get infected by the rusted rails.)

“Well, that was one time,” he snaps back defensively, pulling away from Keisuke’s grip when the boy doesn’t show any sign of letting go. “Move it.” He barks.

“That’s what they all say before they get addicted and shit.”

Haruchiyo sneers, “I didn’t even do the shit you’re saying. Learn to mind your own business, Baji.” It really was the only time that he had been caught, opting to do things in the comfort of his own room, Keisuke appearing that night was unexpected.

Keisuke is too dramatic for many reasons, always feeling and acting intensely, which Haruchiyo knows is steamed from genuine worries and his gold heart, though that seems to annoy Haruchiyo even more. He has never once asked Keisuke to care about him. It’s bothersome. Gross. His stomach turns and twists in ways that make him feel physically ill. Keisuke has always been like that. (He always will, deep down, in the walls Haruchiyo doesn’t want to unlock and see, he knows this.)

Silence rains over them as the two boys stare down at the water. It’s not a pretty view. It’s murky and dark gray and dead fishes can be seen floating on top. Nothing worth stopping to see. People barely come over here now, rumours of the dead haunting this bridge scares keeps everyone away. Haruchiyo’s hand twitches as he starts to fiddle with his fingers. It’s hard for him to stay still, especially with all these thoughts running through his mind. Too many thoughts that he can’t fully process, each one comes crashing before the last could settle — most being ones he doesn’t want to hear or remember, and he only knows one way to block them out.

Keisuke stands too closely beside him, his body heat seeps through his clothing and Haruchiyo feels uncomfortable with his close presence. He kicks Haruchiyo’s loafers with his leather boots, his heart tightens and sours knowing Keisuke is reading him — his hidden and jumbled thoughts, temporarily knocking them out of his head. Keisuke reaches into his loose pockets, taking out a pack of cigarettes. It's a brand new pack — the Seven Stars brand Shinichiro would always have on hand. His favourite. Haruchiyo’s first cigarette was that brand, stealing a cigarette from a pack that Takeomi had forgotten at home, choking on the deep bittersweet smoke.

From his peripheral vision, Haruchiyo watches as Keisuke opens the package to take out a fresh cigarette and jams it in between the cracks on the ground (Keisuke thought about giving Shinichiro the entire pack, but someone would definitely steal it — cigarettes are getting more expensive these days. He still despises smoking, he really, really does. It’s disgusting and Keisuke can’t stand the taste of them, but the smell of seta makes him so nostalgic of a time that will never come again. He is a hypocrite for sneering at how Haruchiyo drowns himself in substances, when he searches for the familiar taste of Seven Stars from time to time), he lights it for him, too.

This is a tribute to their late brother.

They watch the setting sun, waiting for his cigarette to fully burn out.

—

You move away from your childhood home into a small, cheap studio in Tokyo. It is smaller than you are used to, but just enough for one person. It feels more spacious than you’ve ever known. You’ve waited a long time for this.

To escape that house and everything that suffocated you.

You take a deep breath; here you are free.

While walking up the steps carrying stacked boxes, you run into something – or rather, someone – causing one of the boxes to drop, you wince hearing something shatter inside. You pray it’s nothing of importance.

“I am so sorry—” you exclaim as you look up, freezing at the close proximity. You’re met with piercing blue eyes; eyes so void of emotion, similar to when winter arrives and frosts over the neverending sea, he keeps a locked gaze, and you almost find yourself captivated within. Almost. “Um, uh, sorry. Are you okay?” you stammer over your words, internally cringing at how lame you sound.

“No, it’s fine,” his voice is light and cold, it suits his appearance — his eyes. However, his hair reminds you of the cherry blossoms that are about to bloom this spring. “Nobody is helping you?”

“No, it’s just these boxes left. . . Oh—”

The boy bends down to pick up the box that had fallen, looking up the steps. “Which way—? Ah, you’re the one who moved in next door, right?”

You nod your head, and without any other words he brings the box and sets it down in the apartment for you. Not only is he pretty, he is also kind for helping you (—which is something most people probably would’ve done, this is nothing special). He leaves before you get the chance to thank him and you feel bad about it. You didn’t get the chance to catch his name, either. You can’t help, but feel disappointed.

You check your phone, flipping it open to see no new messages or calls, your email is empty, too. You almost sigh, it’s not like you expected your mother to call — this isn’t anything new. Your phone sits heavy in your hand.

—

You never see your neighbour around again. The door to his apartment is always opening and closing. You can hear him coming home late at night, around three or four in the morning, sometimes slamming shut which wakes you up from your needed sleep, and you can’t help but wonder what someone is doing out so late — working, perhaps, that is the most logical and obvious answer.

It’s a few days later when you bump into him on your way to your afternoon classes, or so, you think it’s him. The moment you look up it’s someone completely different.

A boy who vastly contrasts him in appearance.

With long black hair, and sharp eyes that shine gold underneath the morning sun. They’re very beautiful, warmth radiates down onto you just from looking into them. Yet something swirling in those eyes that you cannot quite pinpoint. A white bandage sits on his cheek, light bruises littered across his face that add to his intense appearance.

He says his name is Keisuke and he lives here with his friend. You assume his friend is the pretty boy from the other day.

The two of you walk down the apartment together and he talks to you the entire time before parting ways, his speech is rather brash compared to most people you know, however he seemed quite nice. There’s an air to him that feels warm and comforting. You know better than to harshly judge someone based on first appearance. And you can’t seem to forget his boyish smile that he flashed at you before walking away. It suits him and his shining golden eyes very much; he looks like the sun.

Everything gold radiates off of him.

—

Keisuke’s lip is busted once again. A matching black eye to go with. Blood runs down his temple and connects to the stream running down his mouth. However, he wins in the end, like he always does. Out of all his matches, he’s only ever lost three times.

Betting on Keisuke always means receiving extra cash, however, if he loses, they lose a lot.

Haruchiyo watches as a crowd of junkies immediately swarm Keisuke, and he sighs as he takes a swing of his drink. This always happens, and it’s a good thing because they all get hyped up to the max, and sometimes, some guys are willing to pay for dinner. He and Keisuke never say no to that.

He catches sight of someone similar amongst that crowd, and once they catch his stare within seconds, she’s pushing away from Keisuke.

You look familiar, very familiar, and Haruchiyo doesn’t understand why someone who looks so pure like you is here in this sketchy place. An underground bar where delinquents and nobodies hang out, sell drugs, and fight for quick cash. Someone like you doesn’t belong in such a dirty place. Well, Haruchiyo learned from a young age, even the most angelic of faces can appear sinister when you are no longer needed.

“Hi!” Your sudden appearance and cheerful greeting comes unexpected.

“Hi. . .?” Your smile drops almost immediately, and Sanzu doesn’t mean to look or sound unfriendly, but he doesn’t understand why you would come up to him. He hates talking to strangers.

“Oh, do you not remember me? I moved into the apartment next—”

Ah, right. “I remember you.”

A smile automatically falls back on your face. “Oh, okay. That’s good.”

He shrugs, looking around the room at nothing interesting. Where did Keisuke go? “I guess so.”

You stand next to him, taking the empty spot next to him, without a word.

When you attempt to make small talk, he lets you, barely answering, but enough to seem polite. You don’t seem to mind, continuing on speaking to him. And before he knows, he gets lost in the conversation with you, pulled down, you’re magnetic.

It all comes too unexpectedly. Haruchiyo doesn’t remember what happened.

Really, he doesn’t. And a kiss is all it takes, before everything begins to spiral, it’s a whirlwind.

Haruchiyo doesn’t know how it happened. He’s never done this before — always withering at the contact of others, never liking the way cold hands touch his skin. His lips slam against yours, it’s more of a punch than a kiss, and a small noise escapes you — something Haruchiyo recognises as not out of pleasure. He knows.

“Be—be more gentle,” you tell him when he pushes you against the cold, restroom wall.

“My bad,” he mumbles back. He, more gently, grips your forearm as another form of apology.

He can’t understand why he’s doing this, especially with someone he doesn’t know. Your hands are under his shirt, running over his stomach and his heart races. Your hands are smaller than his, softer, warmer, too. And he thinks it’s the liquor running through his veins — your veins, he can taste it when your pretty lips meet his.

He doesn’t know you. He knows you live next door and you did mention something earlier. Something about you being one of his dealers’ friend’s younger cousin. He thinks it’s something like that (and he doesn’t actually care).

Hissing at the sudden contact, biting down on his bottom lip to hold back a groan. Your hand is wrapped around him, moving up and down too slowly for his liking, so he ruts up into your hand before coming undone far too quickly, and his initial embarrassment is forgotten when you don’t say anything, you only giggle while tilting your head up to kiss him.

Shock runs through him, chills run down his spine, yet something feels too warm inside — it’s recognition, almost like it is something familiar that he’s known and lost so long ago.

It’s not long after when he has you bent over the counter, dress scrunched up to your waist, your pretty panties pushed to the side as he pushes himself into you. His movements are nearly robotic and awkward, you don’t say anything about it though, only thrusting back on him. He watches the foreign scene unfold from the mirror, his ocean eyes capturing your blissed out expression in the mirror, and his stomach flips. You feel so soft. So, so soft against him, he grips your hips harder, feeling as if his legs might give out, he leans his body over your back, pressing an awkward peck on your lips when you look up at him, lasting less than a second before he pulls his lips from your soft ones. Kissing feels awkward. It is far too intimate and you seem to crave it. Haruchiyo hates the feeling. He thrusts into you faster, chasing after his own high. It feels euphoric.

Losing his virginity in a grimy washroom – one of the last places he’s ever wanted to step foot in – is the last thing he’s expected. But now he’s here with you, a girl he only knows the name of. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him these days. Perhaps, he’s just desperate to feel something. Forever chasing the high to feel alive once again.

—

Somehow, you are almost all he thinks about lately. Usually in the morning or late nights. He hasn’t seen you since then. Nor does he really want to. Haruchiyo doesn’t think he is the sentimental type — he’s never had anything of his own to feel sentimental about.

“Oh, you missed again, Sanzu. That little pink head of yours is in the clouds tonight, hm?” Ran Haitani is smiling to himself after witnessing his poor play. His fingers are busy chalking up his cue stick and the sound of his brother snickering makes Haruchiyo roll his eyes.

That detached and arrogant look in his eyes reminds Haruchiyo of him. Those eyes that have always looked down at him — Ran has the same look in his eyes and a matching [irritating] lazy smirk that Haruchiyo wishes to smack off of his face with the cue stick in his hand. The scene flashes dark red, beautiful and bright.

“I guess it’s our win again. As expected, right, brother?” The younger Haitani chimes in with a similar grin — one more boyish and wide. He shows more teeth than his brother, but carries the same arrogance. Sometimes, Rindō is cool to hang out with (which seems as a given from how the two of them hang out alone from time to time), but Haruchiyo usually finds him infuriating.

“That’s right, Rindō.”

“Fuck off, Haitani.”

“Hey, don’t get mad at us for your shitty plays,” Ran says as he leans against the table, still chalking his cue stick — he does this after every single shot: always making a show out of it when it’s not needed at all. “Ever heard of hating the game, not the player?”

Haruchiyo rolls his eyes for the nth time tonight, “You always have some stupid shit to say.”

“Huh?” Ran looks at him in disbelief before laughing, “don’t be a sore loser, Sanzu. I was only teasing. Loosen up.”

“That’s what I mean by stupid shit. Whatever, man.”

“Mhm, whatever you say. Let’s play another round before heading out.”

Rindō perks up, “The loser has to pay for our drinks later.”

He hates being around these two pretentious assholes, but one of his acquaintances introduced him to them. They sell good shit and give him a good deal every time so it’s hard for Haruchiyo to find another dealer as good as them. He got trapped in their web. The Haitani brothers continue to make jabs at him throughout the night whenever they catch him staring off into space. Rindō remarks it’s probably because of a girl, and despite denying it, Ran teases him about it. Whatever.

Losing his virginity to you isn’t why Haruchiyo thinks about you, it’s that he can’t get the image of you taking him so well out of his head (and the way you smiled so sweetly at him afterwards, you were kind.) The sensation he felt had his mind dizzy, a new high he’s become addicted to. It’s an obsession at this point, not with you, he clarifies to himself every time, just sex. His hand cannot replicate the hot and tight feeling of being inside of you, and that’s how he finds himself coming back to you, knocking on the door of your apartment, instead of going out to a club with the Haitani brothers.

(“You owe us, asshole.”

“I will later,” he simply says. “I’ve got stuff to do.”

Ran smirks as he elbows his brother. “Stuff,” repeats Ran as Rindō lets out a long, mocking, ‘Ah’, at the indication.

Haruchiyo doesn’t say anything anymore. This is why he never talks to them about anything personal. They’re just a bunch of annoying pricks.)

The sky is pitch black, and doe-eyes stare up at him. Stars shining within. He takes in your sleepy form, hair a mess and pajamas that don’t match. He almost smiles, he wants to.

You wait, before deciding to say, “Hi, Sanzu. . . Um, is there something you need?”

“I just, uh, I came to say hi,” he lamely makes up an excuse that neither of you buy.

“At two in the morning?” you ask teasingly, opening the door a little wider, inviting him inside. You look a little sleepy, hooded-eyes and a pretty smile looking up at him. He recognises this look (just barely) from the night before. You want to kiss him.

“Oh, yeah. . .” he dumbly replies. “Yeah, I was out, and yeah.”

He sounds stupid, he knows. You know, but you continue to smile.

You offer, “Wanna come in?”

Your hand reaches out to him — you don’t touch him, your fingers fiddle with the hem of his shirt, lightly tugging him towards you. Barely. You wait for him to move. And so, he gives you what you want. His hand falls to your waist as he stumbles inside, lips locked, kicking the door shut behind him.

—

Haruchiyo comes knocking more and more. He stays overnight, and he sits at your place without the intention of sex. He doesn’t get mad when you decide you aren’t in the mood for it, either.

You do most of the talking, he listens, and you come to learn that Haruchiyo talks a lot at times.

You think he is cute, really cute. You really like him.

—

Nothing good comes from being with a guy like Haruchiyo, you know this, you really do. You’ve met many boys like him before. Troubled, reckless, and cruel. Cold, scarred, and lonely. He is not a good guy, and the crowd he hangs around is no better. But somehow, you can’t stay away, like a moth to a flame, you are always drawn to things you shouldn’t be.

Beneath it all, he is a sweet guy. He treats you well, you think, better than most of the people you’ve met in your life. Always following you around when you go out, saying it’s dangerous for a girl to walk alone. You think he is a little overprotective, but you also know he is only looking out for you. You think Haruchiyo is sweet, really sweet.

The layout in their apartment is the same as yours. It’s a lot cleaner than you imagined for two young men living together — a recipe for disaster. However, surprisingly, it is almost spotless, despite the few pieces of clothing laying on the floor or hanging on the couch (ones you believe to belong to Keisuke).

Haruchiyo’s room is spotless, not a speck of dust in sight. You eye the old nametag on the uniform on the wall, ‘Akashi Haruchiyo’. Akashi. Sanzu. Haruchiyo. (Sanzu, Sanzu, Sanzu.) You don’t mention it, you sweep those questions away into the back of your mind, it has nothing to do with you.

A pack of cigarettes that always seems to sit on the counter, new and never used, carefully cared for as no spec of dust is seen, you can’t help but wonder why, yet you never find yourself asking. It’s a strange feeling, when you know you’re not supposed to ask or do something without being told, the boundary you cannot cross.

“When will Keisuke be home?” you ask while clicking the start button on the rice cooker.

His silence draws out longer than you are comfortable with, your lips are pursed, wondering if you had said or done something wrong. There is no way you did. You know this, however, your nerves slowly eat away at you the longer the silence draws on. You can’t stand silence like this, the only thing you can hear is his breath mixed with yours and your rapid heart. “He will be home later. Baji usually comes home late, so he won’t be here to eat with us.”

A silent breath of relief escapes you, that anxious tension vanishing from your stomach. “Oh, okay. Then, I’ll pack up the leftovers after and leave it for him to eat once he gets home.” Now that you think about it, Keisuke really is always out and about. He is definitely more outgoing than both you and Haruchiyo combined.

“Sanzu—”

“Haruchiyo,” he interrupts. “Call me Haruchiyo.”

“Okay, Haruchiyo,” you test out his name with a roll of your tongue, and he hums to himself, quite pleased with how his name spills so naturally from your lips, and you bite back a smile when you notice the expression on his face. Your face feels warm. “Where are the rest of your pots? Is this all? I think it might be too small for all three of us. . .”

“Yeah, I think that’s it. Nobody ever really uses the kitchen much. We just eat out most of the time.”

“Oh, well, let me go grab one of the pots from my apartment. Gimme a second,” you say before going to your apartment to look for a bigger pot.

Haruchiyo just watches you cook, or so you think he is, because sometimes, it looks as if he’s lost in his thoughts, even with his eyes on you.

You end up spilling personal things with him, something you have never done with anyone before. You don’t know why. Haruchiyo just listens to you in ways nobody ever has. “My dad never treated me right as a kid. I can barely remember what he looked like, not angry, sober.” He hums. “My mom, well, she is probably doing better now since we’re both gone. . .”

He asks, “Do you miss them?”

“No,” you reply a little too fast. “No, not really. Sometimes, I do think about them, though.”

It’s too complicated, you think. Your feelings get so jumbled up, and you don’t understand them most of the time.

“So, what about you, Haruchiyo?”

“What about me?”

“You know. . .” you trail off, hoping he understands what you are trying to ask (you know he knows), but he doesn’t say anything. “What is your family like? I would like to know more about you, um, if that’s alright with you.”

“There isn’t anything to know,” his curt reply is enough for you to know that he doesn’t want to talk about it, and your heart sinks in disappointment. Maybe it shows on your face, Haruchiyo is silent for a few seconds before adding, “I don’t have any family, so there’s nothing for me to tell you.”

“Oh, sorry for asking. . . I didn’t know.”

“It’s fine. Don’t feel bad about it, pretty. You were just curious about me, right?” he asks this plainly, yet there’s a tug on the corner of his lips that lets you know he is happy that you want to know more about him. You nod your head and his smile becomes more prominent, he looks so innocent when he smiles. “I am curious about you, too.”

“I know.”

“Oh, you know?”

“Mhm, I know,” you cheekily reply and even the sound of his chuckle is enough to cause your heart to race. You can’t help that you are so simple, so easy, Haruchiyo makes you so nervous, yet so seen and comfortable. “And when you ask me, I tell you.”

Haruchiyo smiles. “I know you do.”

You believe it to be inevitable, the way you often find yourself pinned underneath him. Something about him is so addicting, you keep wanting more and more. The sound of moaning and skin slapping echoes within the room, it’s obscene, and adds to the erotic scene. He’s unable to contain himself, taking you on his couch the very chance he gets to, and you just let him. You love how he makes you feel, he has you seeing stars — chasing one after another.

He stills his movements for a moment, curious eyes staring down at you; those empty eyes of his are lust-filled and all you can see in them is you. He wants you and only you. You are eager to give yourself to him, to let yourself fall into his arms, completely letting yourself be swept away. You want him, too. He definitely knows this.

“You said he treated you like shit, right?” he says this, and you stop your movements, too. “If I were—were around then, I could’ve taken care of him for you.” The implication of it has your blood turning cold and your fingers wrap around his shoulders as you push him away a little, so you can look at him more clearly.

Those words are spilled so sweetly, like the way he kisses you before he leaves your apartment, or when you wake up beside him during the late mornings to find him still there, gazing at you as if you hung the stars. His words sound so sweet, just like when he tells you about how good you make him feel, they sound so sweet, and it’s not.

You think Haruchiyo likes you. You know he does.

“Th–that’s not as romantic as you think,” you say, voice breathless as you try to steady your breathing. And he’s already dead, you don’t say it, you don’t need to.

“No?”

You shake your head.

“Haru, move. . . Please.”

Haruchiyo hums, and you demand this time, nicely, of course.

“Yeah? Fine. You are so spoiled.” Haruchiyo is quick to give into you if you beg sweetly enough — if you say you need him, and only he can make you feel this way. But he always gives in. He moves, just like you asked — he moves in and out of you painfully slowly, it’s taunting. You whine at how it misses that one spot you desperately need it, yet the pleasure he brings is still, strangely, enough all at the same time. All you can think and see is blue and white swirls, and Haruchiyo, Haruchiyo, Haruchiyo.

“Think you like that idea though, tightening ‘round me like this. Oh, shit—” he chokes on a moan, then heavily sighs.

“So perfect for me, you’re mine. Say it for me.” Strands of his light pink hair falling onto your face, it tickles from the way it brushes against your cheeks with every move. Soft like cherry blossoms. His hand slides up your wrist, placing his hand over yours, your fingers tightly interlocked. “Please, baby. Y’know I would do anything for you, right?” You nod, even though his words are barely registering through, your head feels fuzzy.

He starts slamming his hips into you, you moan loudly as he repeats it again and again, his movements becoming sloppy. You’re too sensitive, overstimulated, it’s almost painful the way he keeps himself in you — it hurts, yet a familiar pleasure builds in you all over again. “Tell me you’re mine. Mine. My girl.”

“I am yours, Haru. All yours. Want nobody, but you. . .”

The moment those words spill from your lips, Haruchiyo immediately cums between choked moans and curses, and warmth spreads inside of you. He clumsily thrusts a few more times, leaning down to close the small gap and kisses you. He smiles down at you so innocently, cheeks red, bruised lips. He asks if you are okay, and you nod, pulling him closer.

Your fingers trace over the scar above his eye, faded yet deep. He leans into your touch. You find it ridiculous how pretty Haruchiyo is. His eyelashes are thicker and longer than yours, you find it unfair. He is so beautiful, you’ve never seen someone as pretty as him before.

“Did it hurt?”

“It used to, but not anymore,” he softly sighs, “feels good when you touch me. You’re so soft and warm, it makes me feel at ease with you around.”

“Me too,” you breathe out.

You know you are falling in love with him. Even if it is something like whim, because he is the only one who listens, understands, and hasn’t abandoned you. You like Haruchiyo. You are falling deep for his pretty blue eyes and the sadness that consumes him like cocaine.

Your beautiful boy.

(He whispers that you are like an angel as you drift off to sleep.)

—

You wonder if it would be presumptuous of you to assume that you are Haruchiyo’s girlfriend. Because technically, you are. Without words exchanged, things have turned out that way, and you think it must’ve been inevitable (Keisuke always refers to you as Haruchiyo’s girl, and Haruchiyo never says anything about it). You are Haruchiyo’s. You feel like Haruchiyo is yours, too.

“Are you two fuckin’ stupid? You’re just asking to get pregnant,” Keisuke huffs while rolling his eyes.

“Keisuke!” you exclaim, hitting your hand over his mouth with a glare. “Shush, lower your voice, please,” you lower your voice, glancing around in hopes nobody had heard him. A few judgmental glances are thrown your way, and you groan, wishing to shrink away. “We’re in public. . .”

Keisuke grabs your wrist, pulling your hand off his mouth as he stares at you. His face isn’t littered with bruises and cuts these days. No white bandage to stop you from seeing everything on his face. He looks a little exhausted these days — you assume from lack of sleep.

“Sorry,” he says, immediately lowering his tone into a low whisper like you had warned him to. “Are you that stupid?” he repeats and you loudly scoff.

“That’s why I just bought the pill.”

“You also bought a pregnancy test a few weeks ago,” he retorts, and you bite your bottom lip at a loss for a comeback. You didn’t actually think you were pregnant, you were only making sure. “I am just saying, keep letting him do it raw and knock you up. Can’t even take care of yourself, so how—”

“I can,” you interrupt, “I can take care of myself.”

“Right, barely. Haruchiyo is fucked up in the head, how could you even take care of a kid?”

You glare at Keisuke. “Hey, don’t talk about Haru like that. He’s your friend.”

“Like I said, I am just trying to look out for you two. Don’t be so mad.”

Does he actually see you as someone so incapable?

Obviously, his words make you mad when you originally weren’t, he can’t keep his mouth shut sometimes, and he makes it up by buying yakisoba for you.

The three of you are barely getting by. Birds of a feather, they say. It’s a shitty life, you all know, but some moments are worth living for.

It’s not so bad when you aren’t alone.

—

“I saw Senju earlier.”

“And?”

“Nothin’. She says hi, though, asking if you’re good and stuff. She probably misses you. You should reach out to her or something.”

Haruchiyo sneers at the idiotic thought. There’s no way in hell he will ever talk to any of them again. Over his dead body — he’d rather die a million times. In the corner, he sees your head perk up at an unfamiliar name, sending the two of them a curious look.

He hopes you won’t ask, he knows you ask anyway.

“Who’s Senju? An old girlfriend?” The moment those words leave your mouth, Keisuke is making gagging noises, your eyebrows pull together as you turn your head towards him. “What’s so funny?”

“Younger sister,” Haruchiyo corrects your assumption.

“Hey, you told me you’re an only child,” you reply with a frown — a small pout to your lips. You look so adorable like this.

“That’s because she isn’t family to me.” He can feel bronze eyes burning into him. “Don’t worry about it. It’s nothing important.”

You slowly hum, not saying anything else, but Haruchiyo knows you understand him. Not wanting to step into a dark space that he doesn’t want you to know. He wonders why you’re so accepting of this – of him – even after catching him in a lie. He can tell you’re somewhat upset, too. But he knows you won’t mention it and he finds relief in that fact. Keisuke remains silent, too. His understanding is different, it’s familiar, rooted deep into their souls.

“Where did you go today, Kei?” You’re quick to change the topic and that’s one of the reasons why Haruchiyo likes being around you so much.

“I was just out with some friends,” he replies. “We went bowling, then took a ride around town.”

“Aw, bowling sounds fun.”

“You should join us next time.”

“To go bowling? I am not so good, it’s been a while since I’ve last been. Plus, I am not sure if Haru would want to go. . .”

Keisuke smugly grins, gold eyes flickering from you to him. “Yeah, but he would go anywhere you wanna go.”

“Is that true, Haru?” You turn your attention to him, and Haruchiyo shrugs.

“Maybe, it depends,” he replies, though the obvious and right answer is yes. He would do anything for you. Diving deeply into the depths of heaven and hell — wherever you want to take him. You and Keisuke both know this, because you both glance at each other and laugh, already discussing a date to go bowling.

Haruchiyo doesn’t join in on the conversation anymore, he grabs the remote in front of him and mindlessly flips through the television channels.

Keisuke has been distant lately. He is trying to change. He says he always remembers his mother crying in front of him for the first time, something he never wants to see again. Haruchiyo could never relate to this feeling, he doesn’t know what it means. He is trying to get an actual job — a normal job, like what normal people do. As if they weren’t both raised in the same shithole. Keisuke and Manjirō were the lucky ones — they always have been chosen by the stars above.

Keisuke fights in underground clubs every Friday for money, and Haruchiyo — he sells cheap cigarettes and substances to messed up kids like them. They’ve been doing this shit since they were in middle school. That has never changed for him. Haruchiyo knows he’s being left behind once again. By everyone he has ever known. Even Keisuke is moving on, to a life with people he doesn’t know and to a future he cannot see. It’s only a matter of time before you leave him, too. You are too bright, too lovely. No matter how much he digs his claws in you, it won’t be enough to keep you in place.

Even the ghost of Shinichiro doesn’t visit him anymore, and he’s left alone back at the doghouse once again.

—

Lately, he returns home to the same scene: just you and Haruchiyo cuddling up together. Stuck together like super glue.

Haruchiyo’s eyes are always a little clearer when you are around, awake, gazing at you with honey dripping from them. He’s seen that look in those sappy romance films his mom used to watch.

The image of you is captured so clearly within those crystallized eyes, trapped within. Keisuke isn’t stupid enough to not notice that Haruchiyo’s feelings for you are not normal. Society’s version of normal, anyway. Haruchiyo has always been weirdly obsessive and desperate at times; he’s seen so, with Shinichiro, Mikey, and now, you. It’s not normal, but is it so bad? Haruchiyo is beginning to breathe again in the form of you; light glimmering in his lifeless eyes when you say his name, you cover his wounds with your warmth, and love has always been a complicated thing.

Later that night, he and Haruchiyo make a run to the convenience store, and along the way home, they stop by an abandoned park and smoke a joint together — nobody ever stops by here, so there’s no worries in their hazy minds.

“I think I am in love,” Haruchiyo admits as he sucks on a strawberry popsicle. His favourites haven’t changed since they were seven.

Keisuke takes the last hit of the joint before dragging it out on the concrete. “Yeah, no shit, dude,” he replies, “everyone can see it.”

Haruchiyo grins, all teeth and wide, his eyes closed. “No, like I am fucked. So fucked, Baji.”

When he asks why, Haruchiyo is zoning out — Keisuke is buzzed as well, so it’s not like he cares. Haruchiyo is lying on the ground, head in his new leather jacket, staring long and hard at the night sky above, he isn’t here right now. He is a thousand miles away.

After, what seems like a long time (in reality, 20 minutes), he asks again. “No, but like why?”

“If she ever leaves me, I’ll kill myself.”

He says it so casually, then laughs so loudly, it sounds like he’s crying, and Keisuke ends up laughing, too. They laugh, and laugh, and laugh like it’s funny — like it’s nothing.

“No kidding. You’re fuckin’ insane.”

Settling down with deep breaths, he just confirms with a vague, “Yeah.” Pauses, then adds, “She makes me feel alive.”

Keisuke doesn’t doubt it one bit. Haruchiyo is crazy, and obsessed with you. Like a stray dog finding shelter again — you’re his sanctuary in this corner of the world. But is it so bad? Keisuke has never been one for relationships, it’s too complicated and time-consuming, but that is what love is. It’s everything worth the trouble.

Love is so strange, and it keeps them alive.

—

It’s happening again.

He’s stuck there again with no way out.

Mud is caving in on him, he’s choking, and can’t breathe or see anything. His body thrashes around, searching, searching, searching for another body. His hand reaches another — mummified. A black void consumes his entire being.

(He thinks he can hear a calling of his name — it sounds so familiar, like the warmth of his blanket from his childhood.)

When he awakens, he’s drenched in his own sweat, head pounding, electrified down to the rough pads of his fingers.

Haruchiyo downs a couple of pills.

—

You get a call from your mother. It comes unexpectedly, and you almost let it ring until the end, stunned.

Of course, you scramble to answer her call. “Hello? Mom?”

The line is staticky for a moment, and you wince. “Hi,” her voice sounds breathless. “I, um, I did not expect you to pick up.”

“Oh, yeah. . .” You don’t know what to say, but your heart is racing unbelievably fast. You have so much to say, but you can’t form any of them into words.

It is awkward, painfully so. It is the entire call, but you both try to talk, stumbling over each other when silence hits for a little too long.

She is doing well, much better than when you left, and you are glad. You think you are doing better than before, too. She mentions that she met a new man — one kind, one who treats her well, and works at a bank. Her last man was a piece of shit, somehow as bad as the first, he made your miserable lives even worse, and was in it for far too long.

She says she would like it if she could see you, and maybe you can meet him, and you choke. Getting introduced to someone new is too sudden, seeing her again is too soon, and what if she didn’t love him? Or if he doesn’t love her. He could be like the last one. A phony. She doesn’t know, you wouldn’t know. You think you are overreacting, you know you are, but you aren’t sure how you’re supposed to feel.

“No,” your voice is too quiet as you try to control the shakiness of your voice. “Not yet, but soon.”

“Okay. I do not want to force you, nor does he. Take all the time you need.”

“Thank you.”

“This isn’t something you need to thank me for.”

You almost cry for some reason.

Before the call ends, she tells you she would like to call you again; you say okay.

—

Sometimes, Haruchiyo doesn’t like to see you. You understand, and try to respect his space.

Every time he needs his space, he comes back seemingly happier, and he always takes you out despite hating being outdoors around strangers for so long. You learn he is very good at bowling, the two of you beat Keisuke and his other friends quite easily, despite the blond one mentioning he was a professional bowler earlier on (Haruchiyo whispered in your ear that he was definitely lying).

At the arcade, he wins you a giant plushie from an old cartoon, and he tells the others to win their own when they start asking him for one. With his remaining tickets, he trades them in for a ring pop – strawberry, your favourite – and slides it onto your ring finger with a cheeky smile, there’s red coating his cheeks. You mirror his smile, and drag him into a dark empty corner to kiss him. His hand is immediately sliding underneath your shirt.

“Haru, we’re in public,” you warn him as you break the kiss to lightly glare at him to behave.

“It’s fine, it’s only a kiss,” he replies, pulling you back in to deepen it. You melt into it.

Sometimes, Haruchiyo doesn’t like to see you. Especially, when he is high, he doesn’t like when you’re around.

One time, he’s collapsed onto his bed, he mumbles that he wants to see you, despite you being right there.

You can’t help, but worry.

Sometimes, Haruchiyo doesn’t like to see you. He gets so busy with things, and Keisuke says he doesn’t know — but you both know what he is up to. Sometimes, he doesn’t talk to anyone for two days. He stays trapped in the walls of his bedroom, or in places nobody knows of. This behaviour grows more and more frequent as the weeks go by.

Haruchiyo comes to see you, he always comes back to you. He says he wants to rent out a dvd to watch with you, and you bury your head into his chest, and cry.

He frantically asks what’s wrong, ever so weak to your tears. His hand rubs gentle circles on your back as he cradles you closely. “Talk to me, baby,” he coos.

(It’s hypocritical, you think.)

“I miss you,” you tell him.

He chuckles. “But I am here with you.” For now.

For now, for now, for how long?

—

Haruchiyo is falling.

He’s slowly falling down, down, down.

You force your eyes open every time you watch as he is drowning down those little white pills a little too fast, crushing them into powdered stardust, chasing after a star that has been long gone — he will never reach it. Not now, not in another lifetime.

You wish you knew what it was; the very thing Haruchiyo desperately needs to see — that very thing he can’t think of long enough before he drowns himself into something (anything) once again. In a strange way, you think you know. It comes in the form of the cigarette pack that sits awkwardly on the corner of the coffee table, unused and gathering dust (you’ve seen Haruchiyo smoke the same brand during the late nights when he thinks you are asleep, bitterness as he awakens with dread, and a similar scent lingers on Keisuke’s collar, too), to the unspoken sadness that chains them together, that same distant look that is reflected in their eyes from time to time.

It’s too much, too fast, Haruchiyo will slip through the gaps of your fingers if he doesn’t slow down.

You watch as he spills and arranges the substance into a straight, thin line. Your presence gone unnoticed, except for the intensity of your stare, which he finally (finally, finally, finally) notices you and his open door that he rarely ever forgets to close.

“Leave me alone for a moment.” He nods his head toward the door, yet you don’t move.

“Haru, you already did it earlier, isn’t this too much in one day?”

“It’s not—baby, just leave me alone for a minute. Please.”

You know how Haruchiyo is. He doesn’t like anyone seeing him like this, before, during, or afterwards — his one minute means four hours.

When you call his name, he snaps. That wild dog from the apartment above begins to bark, vibrating through the thin walls of the apartment. The owner screaming for it to shut up. He lets out a slow exhale, standing up, “God, why is it always the same thing with you these days? I ask you nicely and—and you don’t listen to me.”

“Same thing with me? I am just checking up on you because I care—”

“I never asked you for that. I didn’t. . . I’ve told you before not to act like that.” What makes it hurt is how Haruchiyo tries to keep his voice light and soft like he always does with you. His jaw is clenched, and pauses every few seconds to take a breath. He gets agitated far too fast. He cares too much about treating you gently, but he doesn’t even realise he’s being mean; uncaring about what you have to say, uncaring of your feelings, he doesn’t care that you just care about him.

Your eyes are stinging. You bite down on your bottom lip, harshly, trying to keep your tears at bay. “You’re being mean. You don’t have to say it like that, I mean well.”

“I wouldn’t if you just minded your own business.”

You don’t think you will ever get through to him. Even if you kneeled down, and begged him like a dog to stop, he wouldn’t understand. You sniffle, body betraying you as tears are edging to fall, you don’t want him to see you like this — you don’t want to see him like this.

Haruchiyo deeply sighs, stepping closer to you, he gently grabs your forearm. You think it would be a comforting gesture, if it weren’t for the fact that he deliberately steps into your space to make you step back, one step closer to being out the door. He wants you gone. “It’s nothing new. Gimme a moment to myself.”

“You want me to leave.”

“Yes.” He doesn’t look at you when he says this. That stupid little white baggie has his attention — his complete attention the moment he gets you out of here. Not living, not dead, no interest in his life.

You taste iron in your mouth. “You want me to leave,” you repeat, exaggerating every word with a crack of your voice.

Haruchiyo yells this time, his patience has always run thin. “Yes! That’s what I keep fucking telling you.” He quickly shuts his mouth and runs his hand over it, swallowing his regret. A tear rolling down your face is enough for him to sigh, he hates when you cry (not when it’s not out of pleasure), he hates arguing with you, and he mutters that he’s done.

He doesn’t push you out. He doesn’t comfort you. He doesn’t close the fucking door.

He walks back to his table, sitting down, rearranging the powder — he doesn’t care. He wants you to watch.

You bitterly tell him you’re done with this, screaming that you don’t care anymore, you’re done, done, done. You don’t even look to see if he lifted his head to look at you when you shouted those words, or if his nose was glued to the table instead. You rush out without closing his bedroom door; you slam their front door shut, it echoes in the apartment’s empty hallway.

A sob echoes with it.

Haruchiyo doesn’t come knocking on your door after. You don’t seek him out, either. A fight between the two of you has never occurred before, not like this, only annoyed remarks exchanged that were resolved by sweets and kisses. Days pass without any contact, you leave your apartment at different times, and you wonder if it is over now — all over a stupid, little fight.

—

With midterms rolling around, you don’t have time to focus on Haruchiyo, your relationship — the remaining ashes of it. You don’t know, you don’t want to know, you’re afraid to know. Your grades have gone down, and you need to focus on getting them back up. On some days, Keisuke attempts to mention Haruchiyo; sometimes, you get mad, sometimes, you grow silent and shake your head, and on other days, you’ll cry at the mere mention of him.

Haruchiyo’s birthday passes without you ever knowing. You hear it from Keisuke when he lets you ride behind him on his motorcycle to your part-time job at an old dvd rental from the 80’s. These past few days, he has been picking you up once you’re done, too. He is kind, so sweet, but you know Keisuke is mostly doing this because he cares too much (and he is worried about Haruchiyo more so than you).

You lie, and say you don’t care that Haruchiyo’s birthday passed, who cares about his stupid birthday? And there’s a shock that runs through you when you realise that you never even knew his birthday — he couldn’t even tell you a simple, little detail like that. Either way, you refuse to swallow down your pride, not this time. If Haruchiyo cared about you, even a smidge, he would’ve come knocking on your door after you left or called. But he hasn’t done that, he’s done nothing for weeks. Keisuke laughs, louder than his roaring engine, and tells you it’s fine, because Haruchiyo has never once celebrated his birthday since way back then, he doesn’t believe or see joy in such things anymore. Your heart aches, and suddenly, for a split moment, your resolve vanishes.

(Always too weak when it comes to him. . . your poor, beautiful boy.)

He drops you off in front of the store — looking ever-so empty inside, nothing new. His heavy hand ruffles your hair, you glare at him, swatting his hand away. “Stop, you are going to ruin my hair,” you complain with a pout.

“Don’t think so much about it. It’ll be fine.”

(It’s fine, it’s fine, everything will be okay.)

Before he drives off, he says, “I’ll pick you up later. See you.”

Your co-worker comes up to you during your shift. He’s a sloppy guy around your age that you’ve spoken less than ten words to. You glance down to his nametag, Takemichi, then to his unkempt black hair, and faded acne scars adorning his cheek. The smile he gives you is both awkward, yet strangely warm. When he asks if you are alright, you just stare at him in confusion.

“Oh, sorry—I, uh,” he begins fumbling over his words, and you sort of feel bad at how put off you are. “You don’t look too well, so I thought, uh, that you are sick or something. . .”

You force a smile, trying to ease his nerves. “I just haven’t been getting much sleep.” It is not a lie, so you don’t feel guilty. “Sorry for worrying you.”

He apologises, too.

So, apologises come easy for some guys. All the ones you’ve known never do.

You wonder if your sorrow is that noticeable — if you are someone so pitiful. It feels worse knowing that it is apparent to people who don’t even know you, and you feel more pathetic than usual.

Life goes on, as it always does. Painfully slow. Days turning into weeks. The seemingly never-ending gray skies, and smoke clouds greet your every wake.

—

Your mother calls again this evening. She calls more often now, and these calls last longer every time you talk, despite the awkwardness that still surrounds the phone calls. The familiarity of her voice is enough to ease you, it’s almost comforting, being forced back to a time when it was only the two of you at home. Just you and her, forcing laughter and smiles, but you were truly happy during those moments, until the familiar creaking of the old wooden stairs and heavy footsteps shattered the rosy glass once again.

The screams take over.

Your mother is a curious woman, very curious. She remembers everything you mentioned, even briefly, even things from when you were only five. She asks you about the boy you told her about before (all shy and giggly), and your nails dig into your palms, eyes darting around your bedroom. From the floor, to the pile of worn clothes in the corner, and an old music box your father had gifted you on your fourth birthday — music doesn’t play from it anymore. The pink ballerina had broken off when you had dropped it, and you super-glued together again. It doesn’t play music anymore, you don’t know why you kept it. It doesn’t play music anymore, you don’t know why you keep it on the nightstand next to your bed.

You tell her you aren’t so sure anymore.

(Your head is spinning.)

“I am sorry, dear. Boys come and go. It is always like that while growing up, but one day, the right one will be there for you,” she says gently, so softly, cradling your wounds. Yet, you wonder why you don’t feel comforted at all. “You are still young and beautiful. Don’t you worry so much.”

You simply agree, “Yeah, I guess that is true.”

When the call ends, you wind up the music box for the first time in years. No sound comes through for a second, and then the first few notes play before going silent — she dances in silence, spinning around and around and around. You watch her dance in the silent echo of your room for a long time, rewinding her before she completely comes to a stop every time.

The memories go round and round.

—

Keisuke basically forces himself into your apartment without an invite, and says, “Wow. You look like shit��I mean, bad. You don’t look good.”

He doesn’t mean it in a bad way, he is just honest with his friends. You don’t look so hot, and he has to let you know.

“Gee, thanks,” you sarcastically reply as you force your head into your textbooks.

So, you ignore him when he speaks sometimes. Keisuke has learned not to mention Haruchiyo to you, especially to how badly you reacted last time, even now the words are threatening to spill from the tip of his tongue. He tries his best not to. (God, you both are so difficult. He thinks he is going insane.)

After a while of making himself at home, he asks, “Wanna go out somewhere with me?”

You glance up from your textbook, asking, “Where to?”

“Come, I’ll show you.”

And without hesitation, you follow him out the house.

So, maybe setting cars on fire and smashing windows with brinks would be a little too much for you. He assumes you wouldn’t want to run from the cops, even if that is a part of the fun. Luckily, his buddy, Kazutora, showed him a spot where they can legally smash things to pieces — not exactly the same thrill, but it’s probably fun, and surely, you would enjoy it.

And you do. You smash everything in that little room and almost trip over yourself a few times while at it.

Keisuke finds it pretty fun, too.

—

After many rejections, it’s considered a miracle when Keisuke gets accepted and passes an interview. It’s been. . . a long time since he got fired from his first actual [legal] job. Honestly, Keisuke still believes he wasn’t at any fault, because what asshole throws a cigarette out at a gas station, right beside the gasoline tanks? That asshole was asking for a beating, and Keisuke only hit the man once. He saved the place from blowing up, if anything, he deserved some reward money. Instead, he gets fired by the lousy, old, ugly manager who sneered that it was only natural that a kid like him couldn’t handle a job.

He said he was lucky the cops weren’t called.

He was the lucky one considering how Keisuke didn’t sock his crooked teeth right out of his mouth right then and there.

(That old prick will get what’s coming for him, Keisuke hasn’t once forgotten his face.)

He knows he needs to start doing something with himself, because once he does, he’s going to make things right with his mom again. Though, it might end up ending the same way as they have been for the past few years. They’re closer compared to most single moms and their sons, Keisuke thinks, and he knows it’s hard raising him — it’s never been easy, because he doesn’t listen. He picks fights, he stopped attending school when he was fourteen, he stays out until the sun comes out, but he tries, he really does. Over the years, her disappointment and frustration builds on her face and it’s enough to make him burn and scream, leaving the room so he can no longer see that look on her face.

He vividly remembers that night, all too well, when he came home to apologise for his behaviour with his mother’s favourite flowers – marigolds like her eyes – and her favourite dumplings that he heard his pops’ used to buy for her when they were younger. Yet before he could say anything, he hears her sobbing through the door, and Keisuke makes a run down the stairs of the apartment complex. He runs, runs, and runs until he’s out of breath.

(Haruchiyo opens the door for him. He’s done so every single time without question, but those eyes of his never leave him — eyes are cold as they silently interrogate him, leaving his insides bare, chills run over him.)

He’ll make things right with her again. She’s his only mom, and he misses her.

Lately, he comes home to Haruchiyo looking like this. Fucked up with dilated eyes, winter freezes over him, hazy and lost like Janurary’s storm. Killing his own mind – himself – for even a few hours with a sense of peace. It’s all pure white laced with a gold rush; a feeling so divine that Keisuke knows he can’t save him.

Haruchiyo is drowning.

But that doesn’t mean he won’t try. Who else would if he doesn’t? (His mind drifts back to you.)

Keisuke takes a deep breath as he marches over to his limp figure on the couch. “Again. You are like this again, Haruchiyo. You need to slow the fuck down.” His words sound too familiar. (“Keisuke, I’ve told you this how many times now?”) Grabbing him by his shoulders, he shakes him, “Oi, Sanzu, wake up.”

He shakes him again. Roughly.

Haruchiyo groans slowly. “I hear you, Shin—” His heart drops at the name, at the ugly and pitiful sight of Haruchiyo. “—Keisuke, very, very clearly. . .” His words are spoken slowly and slurred, and his eyes are wide open, yet unfocused on anything. Ugly and pitiful, his dear friend.

“I am being serious, Haruchiyo. Listen up.” Keisuke inhales sharply, attempting to ease his nerves. He counts to three in his head, twice — something he had learned from a doctor when he broke his arm as a kid. One, two, three. In and out. “What about your girl?” This catches Haruchiyo’s attention, so Keisuke continues speaking, “You know she doesn’t like this right? She just can’t say it ‘cause. . . Like, you heard about her old man right? He fucked up and then. . .” And he can tell his words are falling on deaf ears, it’s pointless, yet he continues to try to reach out to him.

Truthfully, Keisuke would rather be talking to you about this. But every time he mentions Haruchiyo’s name, you get mad at him like he was the one who did something to you. He doesn’t know the exact details of what went down between the two of you; neither of you wanting to say anything, not even blaming each other, just saying vague words. It just adds to his annoyance, because it was obviously some dumb mistake, and if you two were normal and knew how to talk, it would all be good again.

“Say something.” Silence. “Haruchiyo.” More silence. Keisuke grits his teeth, the tip of his fang scrapes against his bottom lip. “Why are you like this? We’re just worried about you,” his voice comes out quieter this time, choking on tenderness, and he hates how he sounds at the moment.

“I know,” says Haruchiyo eventually. “I fucked up. ‘m fucked up. . . And I—I just don’t know how to make it go away.”

“Just cut out the bullshit,” Keisuke replies. He expects Haruchiyo to punch or kick him, to push him away and to fuck off — to call him a busybody, a good-for-nothing loser who failed junior high, a screw up who is just like him — he usually does in moments like these. However, he doesn’t.

“. . . I know.”

“Do something about this. Talk to her.”

“I know, Baji.”

“Okay.”

Keisuke frowns. He can't even laugh or snort or joke about how pathetic this is. His heart is aching at Haruchiyo’s vulnerability — a side he’s only seen when they were little kids, back when they lost Mikey and Shinichiro. Something about it is different this time, and he can’t pinpoint the reason. He just settles on awkwardly wrapping an arm around the taller, yet thinner and frail body beside him, and attempts to keep him grounded as his mind floats far, far away.

There has never been any use in catching him; he’s always known how to run and slip away.

He says, “It’ll be fine. Trust me. We’ll be fine, just like we always are.”

He whispers those words again for good measure, unsure if those words were meant for Haruchiyo or himself. Keisuke almost promises, and Haruchiyo doesn’t respond for another two hours.

—

A constant banging wakes you from your afternoon nap on your only day off from both work and university (you finished all your assignments early, too), and you angrily drag yourself out of bed, still half-asleep. Opening the door, you answer, “What—” and all that annoyance vanishes once your eyes adjust to the sudden brightness and see who it is. “Oh.”

You almost bitterly spit out, “Why are you here?”, but your heart betrays you, racing at Haruchiyo’s sudden appearance, then slows to a pace that aches your very core. All at the mere sight of him.

Before you can slam the door shut, he sticks out his foot and jams it in between, forcing the door to stay open. “Stop—don’t, don’t do that, alright? Don’t be like that, and let me in,” Haruchiyo says, his voice rough and tired. “Let me inside, please, baby. You need to listen to me, please.”

You bite your bottom lip at his pleading and keep yourself pushed up against the door, not looking into the large gap, you can’t meet his eyes or face or him. You end up asking, “Why are you here?” Your voice comes out small, you’re tired, so damn tired — body no longer pushing against the door, and Haruchiyo is swift when taking that moment of hesitation to let himself inside before you had the chance to change your mind.

He takes a step towards you, and you don’t move. He gets close to the point the skin of his hand brushes against you. His body’s cold. “I just wanted to apologise,” he tells you. “I didn’t mean it, any of it. I just—sometimes, I lose control over myself and do dumb shit.”

When you don't reply, he repeats, “I said I was sorry—still am. I didn’t mean any of it that day.”

You breathe out, “I know, I heard you. . . Your apology sucked, it was really, really bad.” Haruchiyo nibbles on his bottom lip, teeth running over dry, peeling, red skin; blue eyes wavering, yet never leaving your face (you still won’t meet his anxious gaze). “But I know you mean it. . . That doesn’t mean I am still not upset or hurt by what you said.”

He visibly eases, shoulders dropping with a silent breath of relief, and he apologises once more.

“I am scared to lose you, Haruchiyo,” you admit, it’s nothing new, but you have to tell him. “I keep thinking, what if something happens, and—like what would I do if you. . .” your words trail off shakily and you swallow the lump growing in your throat. You don’t want to curse the thought to life. Haruchiyo sneers, loudly and sharply, at your unsaid words, they don’t pass him by.

“It doesn’t matter,” it sounds too rough, too soulless, too regardless when he says this. “I mean, it won’t happen.”

You firmly argue, “But it could, Haru.”

“But it won’t. Believe me.” He grabs your hand and places it in his as he gives it a firm squeeze. “I, uh,” he sucks in a shaky breath before speaking, “I want to be better for you. You’d be happy, right? Like we could. . . Yeah, I could try for you.”

He would like to, he means. And you know he would, all to keep you happy. But you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. However, you and Haruchiyo are barely nineteen, barely adults, bad with words and love, but the feelings you have for each other are real, and so overwhelming. If you both try, everything will be alright — Haruchiyo believes this, and you do, too.

“How you live is up to you, but we can figure things out together,” you say to him. His thumb brushes over the skin on your hand. “Please, just let me be here for you. I care about you so, so, so much, Haru. Don’t push me away. I don’t want to leave you.”

“I won’t.” As you smile, he does, too. “I care about you, too, y’know? It drives me insane.”

You know, and he knows that you know.

You pull him towards the couch to sit down and talk, the atmosphere much more relaxing now. “You never called me.”

“I wanted to,” he admits, his hand falling onto your knee as he rubs it unconsciously. “But I didn’t think you wanted to hear from me.”

You shake your head, placing your hand on top of his. “No, I was waiting for you.”

He smiles, a little sad, and you can’t help but notice that he seemed to lose some weight. This worries you as he is already thin. Both your hands reach up to cup his cheeks, sunken and bones, as you pull his face closer to yours and you press a kiss to his lips for only a second. “Have you eaten yet? I still have leftovers from last night that I can reheat.”

There’s not really much left, probably only five bites at most, but it’s still something.

“No, I already ate,” he declines with a lie, but you let it pass. “Let’s just take a bath instead. Yeah?”

“Yeah, okay. Let’s do that.”

Haruchiyo runs the bath like he always does, the temperature is always just right when he does it. When you slide into the bath, a soft moan escapes your lips at the warm contact. Haruchiyo takes off his clothes, gets in, and settles behind you. He pulls you into him, back against his chest, arms wrapping around your waist to keep you close.

You lift your head to look up, and Haruchiyo’s face is expressionless, but the look swimming in his eyes is undeniably love. It couldn’t be anything else.

“What is it?”

“I really meant what I said before, y’know. Most of the time, I—I just don’t feel like my own person,” he continues quietly, “I never wanted to make you cry.”

You twist, barely, due to the lack of space in the tub, and get a better look at him. Pink strands all over his face, you brush it away with your hand, tucking a strand behind his ear. The ocean stares back at you.

You snap yourself out of it, before you get lost. “It’s okay, Haru, really.”

He says your name, so softly, such a gentle sound — your soul is weeping. “You are the only thing that is precious to me, I need you, okay? I can’t live without you.”

Your head is swimming; if your apartment had a shower instead of a bathtub like your old place did, you would’ve been unsteady on your feet. The feeling intensifies the longer you stare at him — drifting off to sea.

You tell him, “I am sorry, too. I just worry about you, Haru. I don’t want to be alone.”

“I know, and I am right here with you, baby,” he gently says (his promise of devotion, no other deserving of his worship). “And I am all yours. Only you.”

A silent ‘forever’ follows after his gentle kiss to your temple. His arms wrap around you, his bones digging into your gut, and you lift your head to kiss his cheek, then one over the faded pink scar running across his eye, then another to his soft pink lips. Haruchiyo is beautiful, everything about him is so beautifully blue.

“So, you forgive me, right?”

His hand taps your thigh, twice, a silent indication between the two of you meaning: open up. “Yes,” you breathe out. You let him in, you always do.

“Good,” he says as his other hand runs across your stomach, up to your breast, and he gently squeezes. His lips brush against your ear, his breath tickles, you can’t help, but smile. “We are in love, baby. No matter what happens, it won’t change a thing between us.”

You can’t imagine a life without Haruchiyo, or what it was like before him. You don’t want to. And so, you tell him just so. He pulls you impossibly closer as his head falls into the crook of your neck, smiling into your skin as he presses a delicate kiss — as soft as a cherry blossom petal passing you by. You love him, you love him so much. Even when he is about to fall, you will be there to catch him. Whispering this sweet oath on repeat, Haruchiyo receives each eternal promise with his lips.

—

Somewhere, he is drowning.

Sinking down, down, down to a place no man can reach. Water turns to mud, white static fills his ears, gasoline and cigarettes sting his eyes and nose; he returns home.

Somewhere, he is drowning.

But not here. You are his anchor.

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