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Takemichi inhales. A short breath of life. From his lungs to his arteries to his brain, it expands in a web of pulsation, and his body lives some more.
He closes his eyes, but the presence remains. It's right there, sharing his bed and staring at his back with a blank expression. He rolls over to the other side and finds nothing. The clock is quipping a lonely melody, tick, tock, tick, tock – it repeats, repeats, repeats, the second hand is clicking its fingers to resemble a steady heartbeat. There is nobody there, but their heart is still beating.
Or maybe it's the other way around. Takemichi exhales and closes his ears. It goes silent.
The outside is snowing, ice rinks and parks stand abandoned, and celebrations are moving to the indoors, to restaurants, shelters, and homes. White-clad trees shrug their branches long and wide, the guardian angels they are, unforgiving and watchful. Their gazes are judgemental.
Takemichi inhales. Time slows down as he does, and if he holds his breath long enough, he can delude himself into being painless.
He vaguely remembers an obnoxious advertisement that a local fast food restaurant has been running on TV – nothing too hard to forget, except for an overly catchy melody. He hums it like a lullaby, and if it had been any normal day – say, just the year before – he would have drooled all over his bed just thinking about it. He isn't so hungry nowadays, so it's okay.
Takemichi exhales. His own breath is chilly on his skin, and he tastes salt on his lips when he licks them. He doesn't remember crying.
His ears are still closed. His blood traverses through his veins and rumbles in waves crashing on the seashore. If he presses on his ears tightly enough, he can imagine strolling on a beach and listening to seashells.
Takemichi inhales and smells nothing. He can't remember the last time he washed his sheets; he doesn't need to. He hardly, if ever, shifts or sleeps in his bed, or maybe he sleeps in a way that doesn't feel like sleeping. As soon as his eyes flutter closed, he tumbles down into the void, like a snowflake descending onto someone's warm hand. It's a pitch-black space that devours his cries; a web of vanity.
Takemichi exhales and shudders; there is a sob. Time slows down and clicks; it clicks as it walks forward, all sharp edges, and high heels, and the clanking of jewellery. Takemichi is a homeless beggar before its face, and he begs and prays, and he doesn't mind if the breadcrumbs are all he is given. He is given handfuls of sand and watches it slip through his fingers. Sometimes, there are shards of broken seashells, too; Takemichi then closes his ears and pretends they are whole, pretends to listen.
If he pretends hard enough, he can delude himself into being forgiven.
"Why did you leave?" It's a pitch-black void that asks, and for a second it flickers, sombre, dejected, lonely. It rides tranquil waves and creates a ripple that divides the deep slumber of something within. It awakens, it lives, and it dies like a fading light on a Christmas garland.
Takemichi knows it's hardly his fault – a collection of faults of different people comprised into the misery of a single human being – but he can't help but smother himself with an endless repetition of a what if. He is asking himself that question so often that he forgets to listen when spoken to. He recalls Hinata dragging him out for shopping and himself forgetting to breathe. He was choking in a suffocating crowd as though his ribs were cut open for the world to see and ridicule. Lost and empty, a heart and a chest. He followed Hinata and stared at his reflection in the windows, unable to shake off the feeling of having grown a second head.
It happened again when Chifuyu invited him to sleep over. And again, when he attended a gathering at the shrine. And again. And again. And.
Again, "Why did you leave?"
Takemichi chokes and exhales instead of inhaling. What comes out is a compressed gasp.
In one of the futures (of the pasts), a brush found its way into his hand. He was told that expressing himself was a way to forget and a chance to forgive, yet he couldn't paint a thing without drifting away to the lost opportunities. What he wanted to paint like a flower landscape became a battlefield, a land scorched to ashes and wraiths. When he laughed, he heard tears; when he ate, he remembered death, and the dead, and the dying; when he slept, he would always end up breathless at the void's doorstep.
And so Takemichi doesn't laugh, doesn't eat, and doesn't sleep, but he keeps closing his eyes because he is still a coward at heart. He is scared to forgive himself and seeks forgiveness from someone who doesn't exist.
Time slows down, its heartbeats decelerate; these are a dying man's last moments. Takemichi thinks if he met this dying man in the faraway haven now, he wouldn't yell at him for sinning. He thinks he would smile at him with gratitude for living, for waiting, and for keeping him company in this scary, dreary world.
He is long dead, and Takemichi is, too, a ghost among the living.
~~
Sometimes, when Takemichi inhales a short breath of life, he wanders. He is empty as he goes, and his guiding light is a myriad of unforgettable things. At first, it was guilt. An all-encompassing, all-devouring feeling of something sour and bitter, painful too, quite like acid; the feeling that keeps him awake at nights and makes him scream his throat sore while lying there, numb and wordless.
Tick, tock, tick, tock. The outside is snowing even harder, no one is celebrating outdoors anymore.
Takemichi is painless; hence, he wanders sometimes. He woke up in tears, tearful enough to step outside in the dead of the night, uncaring of the cold and the dangers. The wind's roars rumbled like a lullaby, a thunder of waves crashing on the seashore, and Takemichi walked, his eyes and his ears closed. The heartbeat was dead, so he made a small grave in a forest. The place was hidden between a residential area and a big park – a good place to rest, to take cover. He'd been hiding for a while already, like a ghost among the living, not leaving a single trace in his wake.
He visited it again, that small and unsightly grave, clumsily made with quaking hands. He came many times, on special occasions first, after a birthday that wasn't supposed to be celebrated. Then, it was every time he felt like a living ghost, and it was happening so often it became a daily routine.
The only place where he felt like he belonged was the grave of a being he let slip past his fingers in a timeline that doesn't even exist. That time, it wasn't a chance that turned into sand, it was a person, but when Takemichi tries to remember their face, he wakes up in a bathtub in his bathroom, wearing new clothes that he doesn't remember owning.
He doesn't buy red, but red is nothing new to him. He dies on the train tracks, he bleeds from gunshot wounds, he weeps with a friend's maimed body growing cold in his arms.
He tries to stand and slips.
It's his bed all over again, all pristine and untouched.
Takemichi inhales and continues wandering.
~~
The day is still going, an hour reduced to a flash. Each minute is stretched to a day, and when Takemichi wakes up, he hears a ringing. Is it the clock? Is it broken? Is it an alarm? A sea? Are his ears still clo–
It's his phone. It's a series of messages that just won't end.
Takemichi thinks the walls are judging him when he flips his phone open. They have no branches, but they are white. They keep watching.
Congratulations greet him from the blinding screen. There are invitations, too; too many, in fact. He is the only one sleeping Christmas away, and the others seem eager to fix that.
Merry Christmas! I'm not feeling well, I can't go. That's what Takemichi thinks – that's what he thinks he is sending. One message, send to: everyone. Done, turn off, flip it back closed.
(Rinse, repeat; rinse "rinse, repeat" and repeat.)
So quiet.
Takemichi inhales. A short breath of life. From his lungs to his arteries to his brain, it expands in a web of pulsation, and his body lives some more. He looks outside, at the bars of white, and can't tell if they are walls, trees, or people. Something that is either a ledge, a branch, or a hand is pointing left. A thin finger. Sickly.
Takemichi shouldn't go, really. His place is somewhere between the stitches in time. But he is a coward that craves forgiveness, a coward whose guilt is his only sense and meaning, a coward who dreams of a being nurturing void in their chest. No matter how full of people his life is, he is bare of peoplehood; he sees the sickly fingers and the limbs of a clock, but not the hands that carry him forward. Loneliness must be infectious, but he doubts the ruinlike being was the source. He might have been the zero patient all along, with this void that lay dormant in his heart until the coming of another injury.
In the end, he is a coward too cowardly to admit being one, so he settles on calling himself a ghost. It seems he is just one of those people who can never be happy.
He closes his ears to hear the sea again, and he hears a murmur that sounds like a name. It's a name he's never said out loud. Maybe he should have. Maybe then, maybe, one of them would have been happier. Which one of the two, he doesn't know.
(He knows, but he's forgotten. It's a long Christmas).
~~
Takemichi exhales and pushes himself off the bed. It's a sudden motion, and his vision darkens; a void welcomes him, looking at him with black eyes – devoid of life, devoid of living, and brimful of love. They don't fault him, they understand. They are just happy he's finally realised.
Takemichi's finally realised that he doesn't belong to this world.
He cries as he stands, and cries as he passes by the bathroom. His phone is still ringing when he leaves it unattended on the bed, but he won't need it. He doesn't take anything. He tries to smoothen the wrinkles on the old shirt he is wearing, glides his palms over the ancient dark stains. He opens the closet, searching for something clean, and closes it shut. All of his shirts are stained.
Takemichi puts on a jacket, way too thin to wear during winter. It will be alright either way. Money, an ID, keys – he leaves everything behind as he pushes the front door open. The cold December air greets him like a stranger, and he accepts the harsh bites on his skin. He closes the door, uncaring of the locking sound that follows, inhales, and strides down the street.
Grey walls, grey buildings, and grey cars fly by while he is walking. His legs bring him to the right place by themselves – there, just past a desolate park, will be trees, will be cover, and then…
There is none.
No grave.
Takemichi exhales and falls to his knees. He is choking again, gouging out ugly sounds. Why isn't it here anymore? Did it leave? Did it finally get tired of waiting? A layer of snow nibbles at his jeans, permeating the fabric. It's a numbing kind of cold, so numbing he can't feel anything.
Is it lost? Has he lost the only string that still tethered him to reality?
Is there any point of being?
Being.
Maybe he should just go to that being.
To the world where he won't be lonely anymore.
To the world where they can be together at last.
Will it accept him? Will it forgive his tardiness, his hesitancy, his cowardice? Is he too pathetic to be denied this last breadcrumb of hope?
He has yet to become beyond sad, hasn't he?
Once again, Hanagaki Takemichi is nothing but a beggar on his knees, catching sand and gasping for breath. One of his hands is pale and stiff, numb and drained of blood, devoid of life that no inhale can muster. It's crooked, and it bends and bends until it points left. A thin finger. Sickly.
Takemichi doesn't close his ears, but he still hears the sea. He inhales and finds himself on an empty sidewalk that spreads across the entire street, from the park to the alleyways to the suburbs. By the time his steps halt, the city is anything but a cacophony; a silent background noise. Only the echoes of clamouring cars resound in the distance, but they fade away as the sea roars on.
Takemichi is on a beach. The snow blankets the sand in long, wide lines; the sea waves cover the shore in slow, sloppy kisses, leaving trails of foam in their wake.
There is a void in the middle of the beach. Standing there, hands in pockets, gaze trained on the horizon. It's cloudy with a dusty kind of clouds that spread all over the place; hues of orange and violet sprawl along the skyline where they bloom hydrangeas. No shiver wrenches the relaxed back; the pale body doesn't look cold. Neither does Takemichi.
He approaches tentatively, unsure, stepping over the white lines one by one. It feels like walking in the garden, mindful of dozens of buds. The other turns, and the void greets Takemichi with a smile, hand outstretching. That's how he learns he may walk freely. It won't leave.
He takes the other's hand.
It's cold.
"I'm sorry," he whispers. These words are too much and not enough, and Takemichi is too cowardly to continue. He needs to convey his feelings and grips the other's bony fingers. Sickly and thin. Alabaster.
I'm sorry I didn't know back then. It stares, pensive.
I'm sorry I can't get over it. It hums.
I'm sorry I keep using you as the only means to feel loved. It laughs as if it's the most ridiculous lie to ever leave his mouth.
I'm sorry I took so long. It goes silent, and Takemichi realises he is holding his breath.
He doesn't inhale.
Another smile meets him, gentle, just as unsure as he is, and it makes him feel like belonging. He grips the other's hand tighter, asking for permission to stay.
He grips back.
Still cold, both of them.
Holding each other, fingers moulding pale flesh like sandcastles, they stroll down the beach, across the white lines. They wander, and the sea roars, and his throat hurts, but Takemichi keeps his eyes and ears open. He thinks of a gentle sunlight without all the blood, all the deaths, all the pain, just like they promised.
He thinks of one of the two, and he remembers.
It's a stain he can't rinse and then repeat.
"Hey, Manjirou?" He isn't startled. He must have been waiting for this moment, to hear him use his given name.
He stares. The void is becoming a sea.
"In our next life, let's be reborn as flowers."
He hums.
"You'll be a hydrangea, I think."
He laughs.
"Let's grow in those ruins you told me about. They were so peaceful. A good place to rest."
He goes silent, and Takemichi holds his non-existent breath. Another smile meets him, gentle and inviting. It's a yes. Takemichi is warm, even though he can hardly feel his fingers. His skin is a body of blues.
They walk as the beach becomes wilder. The road is desolate, with gloomy mountains overhead.
"Manjirou?"
He hums.
"Thank you."
They halt. He might have kissed him on the forehead, but it might have been a snowflake melting on his skin. Both feel cold and burn at the same time. The sea whispers and purrs a familiar lullaby, and only the void stares back and flashes him a toothless smile. It watches, maybe a ledge, maybe a branch, or maybe a hand. With a numb hand in his own, Takemichi doesn't feel like a coward. It's simple, after all: he goes to another place, to where he belongs, like an astronaut searching for his home planet. He turns left.
And he isn't alone.
"Manjirou?"
He hums.
"Merry Christmas."
~~
Takuya is surprised when he wakes up to find his phone ringing. He is even more surprised it's Chifuyu of all people who'd want to call him on the 26th of December early in the morning.
When Chifuyu asks him to check up on Takemichi, Takuya is wide awake. It's true that his friend has been too quiet recently, but Takuya and the rest of Mizo Middle Five decided he was just too busy with Toman. The gang has become a big part of his life, and it hurts just as much as it leaves him no other option but to accept it.
Each of his questions is met with a no, and Takuya is dressed up in seconds. He promises to call again in fifteen minutes, ends the call and hurries over to his friend's house.
Why didn't Takemichi spend Christmas with his friends? Takuya thought he was with Chifuyu, Chifuyu thought he was with Takuya; his intuition tells him everyone will have a similar excuse. It's a worrying kind of negligence, especially regarding Takemichi. He's been everywhere anytime, so much it's like he is always there without having to search for him. He is there when you don't look, and he isn't when you start looking.
Takuya knocks on Takemichi's door. He has to stomp on the ground to warm up, a bit underdressed for an unusually cold December. It's early, and Takemichi must be asleep, but it's better to wake him up and make sure he's not sick than pretty much anything else.
"Takemichi!" He all but whines, banging on the door so loudly it's a wonder no neighbour went out to scold him. He twists the doorknob with all his might, but no, it's definitely locked.
At least he can be sure no one barged inside and murdered him. And Takuya wouldn't be Takemichi's childhood friend if he didn't have a spare key for such occasions.
He enters the house.
"Takemichi? Are you awake?"
His voice resounds in an oddly silent house. Takemichi might be living alone, but he always manages to bring life to this enormous two-storey building: soft music, the rattling of cooking utensils, or his humming as he is solving one of his puzzles could be heard at all times.
All the lights are off, and a veil of dim grey engulfs the interior.
No answer.
Takuya rises up the stairs to the second floor. He marches along a well-known route straight to his friend's room, gently knocks on the doorframe, and peeks inside.
To his surprise, it's empty.
The desk is empty, without any papers, books, or even Takemichi's favourite comics. The chair is free of any clothes he has a habit of storing. The bed is clean and flat, without a single crumpled piece, as if no one has slept on it in ages.
The air is a bit stuffy, but all in all, it smells like Takemichi's room. Wood and paper. And something else.
"Takemichi?" Takuya calls as if his friend could miraculously appear before him. He is met by another silence. No one responds. Nothing.
"Is he not home?" Confused and spellbound, Takuya mutters, "Takemichi, why did you leave?"
There is only one room left to be checked, the bathroom on the second floor. Takuya knocks on the door too, just in case, and predictably receives nothing. The door is unlocked, so he opens it wide and turns on the lights.
~~
Several days later, in a forest between a residential area and a park, they find a grave.