Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

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Reki Kyan 

The night air was thick with the lingering warmth of Okinawa’s approaching summer, the salty breeze clinging to Reki and Langa’s skin as they carved through the pavement, their wheels humming a steady rhythm against the asphalt. 

Reki pushed off harder and twisted the board beneath him, the wind blowing at his eyes as he shot ahead. He glanced over his shoulder with a grin. “C’mon, man, you’re slow as hell tonight!” 

Langa didn’t say anything, instead, he bent his knees, shifting his weight forward before launching himself ahead. Reki watched him in awe as Langa flew through the air like gravity didn’t exist. He hung there– weightlessly, before catching himself and landing clean. The impact rolled through his body as he started slowing down his speed. 

“Pfft! Show–off.” Reki scoffed. He tried to keep a laugh but it just seemed to fade away. Skating was still the one thing that made sense when everything else felt like it was slipping through his fingers. Reki brushed his thoughts away and pushed off harder, the rush of speed sending a thrill through his chest, chasing after Langa like he was trying to outrun something nameless. His legs burned and his lungs were working overtime as he passed Langa.  

“You good back there, Snowball?” he called over his shoulder, a smirk tugging at his lips.  

A second later, Langa shot past him without a word, crouching low before launching himself into a perfect, stupidly clean ollie, his silhouette cutting against the neon–lit streets like he belonged in the air more than on the ground. Reki’s stomach did something weird, but he shoved it down, pretending it was just irritation. Of course Langa had to go and be cool about it. “Dumbass.” he muttered, but there wasn’t any heat to it. Instead, he simply started catching up.  

When he caught up, Langa glanced sideways at him, breathless, eyes sqinted from the wind in his face. He looked like he wanted to say something, but he didn’t. Instead, he just kept skating, the street lights flickering over his face like a broken film reel. Reki didn’t say anything either. The sound of wheels rolling on the pavement seemed to fill the space between them with motion, rather than words. 

“Hey Reki, it’s getting pretty late, we should start heading home.” Langa interrupted the silence.  

“Yea. Let’s head out.” Both Reki and Langa skated home with more silence. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, but it surely wasn’t comfortable either.  

Langa seemed ecstatic to be back home. He forgot to tell Reki, but today was his Dad’s birthday. And his mom had a surprise for him. Reki watched him leave with droopy eyes and a half–hearted smile as he said bye to Langa. Ughh, why am I still not getting better? I thought I overcame this already. Why is he just so– perfect? Eyes were still fixated on the blue–haired boy wrap his arm around his mom like he hadn’t seen her for years. 

Reki’s fingers curled tighter around his board. 

“Reki!” Langa called out suddenly, breaking away from his mom, bright–eyed and still bouncing on his heels. “My mom said you can come over for dinner! We're celebrating–” 

“Ah–nah, I’m good.” The words were out of his mouth too fast, too sharp. He tried to play it off with a forced grin. “G–got some stuff to do. Y’know, busy man and all that.” Fuck, too late now.  

Reki didn’t bother to look at Langa’s way, but he could feel the disappointment concentrate around Langa. Reki slightly cocked his head just enough to meet Langa’s frown. That confused, slightly hurt look that Reki hated seeing. Like he couldn’t understand why Reki wouldn’t just say yes. 

“Are you sure? It's–” 

“Yeah, man. Have fun, though.” He gave a two–finger salute, turning on his heel and skating away before Langa could say anything else. 

Why did he feel jealous for such a stupid reason?

He didn’t stop to look back. 

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Langa Hasegawa

Langa tried not to dwell on how weird Reki had been when he got home. 

He sat at the table, the warm glow of the dining room lights creating a soft ambience, like nothing bad could happen here. His mom was smiling, setting down plates of food– his dad’s favorite dishes. 

“I thought it’d be nice,” she said gently as she started pouring jasmine tea into two cups. “To celebrate, I mean. Even though he’s not here.” 

Langa nodded, even though his throat tightened. His dad’s birthday. Another year without him. His mom pulled out something from behind her chair– a small, black, rectangular box. “I found this while cleaning. I thought you might want to see it. ” 

Langa blinked as she gently set it in front of him. His fingers trembled slightly as he picked it up. How had he never seen this before? It was old– definitely his dad’s. He reached out, running his fingers over the edges of an audio cassette tape. A lump formed in his throat. There was frayed masking tape taped over it, and it had his dad’s handwriting on it. “To my dearest Little Langa.” 

“Do you want to hear it?” his mom asked softly. “I–I haven’t heard it but, we don’t have to do this today.”  

Langa could only nod. “No, it’s okay mom. Dad wanted me to hear this.” Gently, he pressed play. A soft click and a brief crackle of static. Then– his father’s warm voice rang out.

“Hey, my little Langa. You’re probably listening to this all grown up now. There are so many things I never got to tell you, and I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault I’m not there with you, snowboarding in Whistler like we used to.”  

Langa’s breath hitched. His dad’s voice sounded so familiar, but there was something beneath it– something heavy, something forced. 

“How’s Mom doing? How are you holding up? I know you’re doing great, my boy. Haha." A pause. A faint, shuddering inhale– like he was trying to steady himself. "Just– know I love you. And I’m so sorry for everything. I should have taken better care of myself so I didn’t end up like this. You couldn't have done anything different to stop this. Do all that you can to make sure–”  

A sharp, grating screech cut through the words as the tape warbled. And then– silence. 

Langa’s fingers tensed against the player. His stomach churned. The tape hadn't ended, he could still see the spool turning inside, but there was… nothing. No more words. No final goodbye. Just the tape hissing.

What the hell? Why was it cut off? Langa swallowed hard. He pressed rewind, waited, and hit play again. 

“…You couldn't have done anything different to stop this. Do all that you can to make sure– ” 

The same warbled distortion with the weird screech. The same click. Like it had been cut off on purpose. His blood ran cold as his grip tightened.  

Slowly, he turned to face his mom. She was staring down at her lap, hands clasped tightly together, her expression unreadable. 

"Mom?" Langa said, his voice barely above a whisper. 

She didn’t look up. 

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Reki Kyan

Reki paced his breaths, trying to calm himself as he picked up speed on his skateboard. 

What. The. Hell. Is. Wrong. With. Me?  

His legs ached, his palms were calloused and raw from doing pull-ups every night, but none of it was enough to quiet his mind. By the time he reached his house, his body felt like it was moving on autopilot. He barely even registered himself climbing up to his bedroom window, maneuvering his way over the window-sill like always. At this point, it didn’t matter if he was quiet or not– no one noticed him anymore. 

The second he landed on the floor of his room, the baby’s cries pierced through the walls. Reki was used to it by now, but the way his stomach roared in hunger nearly drowned it out. He sighed, rubbing a hand down his face before inching toward his bedroom door. 

Ever since the baby came into the family, everything had changed. 

Reki wasn’t dumb– he knew things would be different with a newborn in the house. It was just another sister. They gave her the name Himari, and it meant “sunlight’s warmth.” He had three other siblings, and his parents had managed just fine before. When Nanaka and Chihiro were born, they were still busy, sure, but they had never treated him like this. Back then, his parents still made time for him. They still asked about his day. They still made sure he ate. They still saw him. 

But this time? It was like he didn’t exist. 

Maybe it was because things weren’t as stable anymore. Maybe it was the fact he was going off to college in another year, if he was even planning to. His dad came home later, his mom had stopped working entirely to take care of the baby, and hushed conversations about money had started filling the house. About things getting tight and bout sacrifices. The worst part? Those sacrifices never seemed to include his younger siblings. 

Koyomi, Chihiro, and Nanaka still had their babysitters, still had their after–school activities, still had their parents’ undivided attention whenever they needed it. But Reki? He got a pat on the back and a "You’ll be fine on your own, right? You’re old enough now."  

He wasn’t sure what hurt more– the fact that they said it so easily, or that they actually believed it. And he knew there were truth to their words. Being the oldest meant being the most independently sufficient. He was only one year from turning into an adult and he gave himself the blame for being so reliant on his family. 

Reki hesitated at the top of the staircase, listening to the conversation below. His mom was on the phone, her voice bright but almost forced, no doubt talking to some relative about the baby. His dad murmured something back, low and tired. The kitchen lights were on, but stepping into it felt like setting foot in a booby-trapped, dark space. 

He was starving. His stomach twisted in protest, a mere cry from barely eating all day. A cup of rice at school– if he could even call that a meal. More often he’d been forgetting to eat and not feel hungry. At school, Langa had shoved a kiwi into his hands earlier, muttering, “Just eat it, dumbass.” Reki had rolled his eyes, but now, he wished he had savored it more. It was the nicest thing anyone had done for him all day. 

Langa. Fuck. Why was he thinking about him again? Reki clenched his jaw and dragged a hand through his knotted hair. He still couldn’t shake what happened earlier– how he’d snapped, how stupid jealousy had seeped in again. It wasn’t like it was Langa’s fault that everything seemed so easy for him. It wasn’t like it was Langa’s fault that– 

A sharp laugh from his mom snapped him out of it. He exhaled hard through his nose and forced himself to move. 

The second he stepped into the kitchen, neither of his parents even looked at him. His mom cradled her stomach, nodding along to whoever was on the other end of the call. His dad stirred something in a pot on the stove, like a npc in a video game

Reki hovered in the doorway, waiting. No: Hey, how was school? No: Did you eat? No: Why are you standing there like an idiot? – nothing. He could’ve been a ghost. 

His fingers curled into his hoodie sleeve. They weren’t mad at him. They weren’t ignoring him on purpose. They were just too busy. He’d heard it all before. “Reki, we trust you to handle yourself.” “Reki, we need to focus on the baby right now.” “Reki, you’re old enough to understand.” 

Yeah. He understood. 

His movements were stiff as he reached into the cabinet, fingers landing on a half–crushed bag of stale potato chips. His mom finally glanced at him, mid–conversation, and for a second, his chest stupidly, stupidly hoped for a "Sit down hun, eat something real." But all she did was furrow her brows slightly and wave him off. 

"Don’t eat too much junk. We need you to be responsible."  

That was it. No real acknowledgment. No warmth. 

Reki swallowed something bitter and nodded, gripping the chips tighter. He turned on his heel and left, the weight in his stomach only growing heavier. 

Seventeen. Almost an adult. So why does it still feel like I’m some kid waiting for permission to exist?  

Chapter Text

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Langa Hasegawa

“Mom? When… did Dad record this?” Langa said again, barely above a whisper. 

No response.

His mother’s grip on her own hands tightened, her knuckles pale. She took a slow breath before finally speaking. “You know he was sick, Langa.”

He nodded automatically, because of course he knew. His mom had told him that over and over again– how his dad had been sick, how he had fought so hard, how it had taken him in the end. 

But…  

Langa looked down at the cassette in his hands, his father’s words replaying in his head. You couldn't have done anything different to stop this. Do all that you can to make sure–

That didn’t sound like someone talking about an illness. That sounded like… His grip on the tape tightened. He couldn't even put a word to it.

He knew how his dad had died. But then why did it feel like something wasn’t adding up? Why did that last sentence feel like a loose thread he couldn’t stop pulling at? Why would you blame yourself for an illness you knew you couldn’t avoid? Why was she being strange about all of it?

His mom reached for her cup, her hands still stiff. “I know today is hard,” she said softly, finally looking at him. Her eyes were filled with something unreadable. Grief, maybe. Guilt? “But I promise, he wouldn't want you to be sad.”

Langa nodded a little too quickly. His throat was too tight to speak. Maybe she was right. Maybe his dad wouldn’t want him to be sad. Because now, he wasn't just sad. Now, he was confused. And no matter how hard he tried to shake it off, one thought refused to leave his mind.  

What the hell am I not hearing?

Langa cleared his throat, forcing his voice to come out steady. “I'm gonna go to bed.”

His mom glanced up, her lips parting like she wanted to say something, but instead, she just gave him a small nod. "Alright. Sleep well, sweetheart."  

He nodded back, but he didn’t meet her eyes as he stood up, gripping the cassette in his hand so tightly his knuckles turned white. The tea on the table had gone cold. The food sat half-eaten, but his appetite was gone. He went upstairs, shutting his bedroom door softly behind him. For a moment, he just stood there, staring at the cassette player in his hands, at the label with his dad’s handwriting. His room felt too quiet. He sat on the edge of his bed, sliding the tape back in with careful fingers before pressing play.  

A click. A faint crackle. Then– his father’s voice.  

“Hey, my little Langa. If you're listening to this… There are so many things I never got to tell you, and I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault I’m not there with you, snowboarding in Whistler like we used to.”

He had to clench his jaw to keep his breath even. He closed his eyes, letting the words fall over him.  

“How’s Mom doing? How are you holding up? I know you’re doing great, my boy. Haha. Just– know I love you. And I’m so sorry for everything. I should have taken better care of myself so I didn’t end up like this”

Langa’s grip on the cassette player tightened, and his hands trembled. Then, there was a faint inhale in the tremor in his father’s voice.

”You couldn't have done anything different to stop this. Do all that you can to make sure–”

Click.  

“You couldn't have done anything different to stop this. Do all that you can to make sure–"

Screech. Click. Silence.  

His heart pounded. He rewound it again.  

And again.  

And again.  

Each time, it cuts off in the exact same place. Each time, the ending never came. What had his dad been trying to say? Why did it feel like something was missing? Do all that you can to make sure of what?  

Langa barely noticed the ache in his fingers from how hard he was gripping the player. His head was spinning and his chest was tight. He had been told exactly how his dad had passed.  

So why did it feel like there was something more?

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Reki Kyan

Langa stands at their usual stop sign, with his hands stuffed into his hoodie pocket. The morning air is crisp, but he doesn't really feel it. He waits for Reki so they can both skate to school together. His mind is elsewhere; wondering about the tape from last night. A skateboard clatters against the pavement. He looks up just as Reki rolls to a stop beside him. Yellow hoodie, worn-down grip tape, crooked headband, paint-splattered freckles, the same old Reki– but something feels off.

“Yo.” Reki mutters with low energy, adjusting his headband.

Langa lifts his fist for a fist bump. It was a habit. A tradition. Reki doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does and just ignores it. Instead, he pushes off without another word, rolling ahead. 

Langa’s fist stays suspended in the air for a second too long before he lowers it. Something strange and uncomfortable settles in his chest.

Did I do something wrong? Langa shakes the thought away and skates off after Reki. But the feeling lingers.

“Hey, Reki? Are you okay?” Langa asks as they both skate off down the road.

Reki glances at him briefly, then looks straight ahead. “Hmm? Oh. Yea.”

That’s all. No teasing, no exaggerated groaning about homework or last night’s skating session, no rambling about a new board design. Just two mumbled words under his breath. Langa wanted to talk more, but something in Reki’s expression made him stop. Instead, they skated the rest of the way to school in silence, and Langa told himself he was imagining things.

By the time they made it to class, Reki had already drifted to his seat without a word. Langa hesitated before sitting down, pulling out his phone covertly under the desk and scrolling aimlessly. His eyes flicked over the screen, but his mind was stuck in a loop– his dad’s voice, the tape cutting off, Reki ignoring him.

He wasn’t sure how long he had been zoning out when the teacher called on him.

“Hasegawa.”

Langa blinked, head snapping up. The teacher sighed. “I asked you a question.”

Langa stared blankly at the board, then at his open textbook. He had no idea what they were even talking about. He wasn’t even sure what subject they were in. The class felt too quiet, too many eyes on him. Someone snickered under their breath.

From his seat, Reki shifted but didn’t say anything. His head laid flat and he just stared at Langa spacing out, but didn’t want to bother him. His aquamarine eyes  Now, watching him completely blank out, something about it made Reki’s stomach twist.

“Pay attention next time please.” the teacher said, moving on. Langa lowered his head, gripping his pencil a little too tightly.

Reki wanted to say something after class. Maybe just a stupid joke to break the tension, but Langa was already walking ahead, eyes locked on his phone, barely paying attention to anything around him.

Reki told himself he would talk to him at lunch. Maybe even tell him the truth– about how things at home were getting worse, about how he hadn’t slept in days because every time he did, he woke up to another argument, another slammed door, another reminder that his family barely noticed him anymore. He wanted to tell Langa about how his parents only ever talked about the baby now, how his sisters were given their utmost attention, yet his parents didn’t even talk to him. How he kept coming home to an empty house that never used to feel so cold.

But when lunchtime came, he hesitated. 

Langa was sitting at their usual table, staring down at his phone again, barely touching his food. His shoulders were tense, like his mind was far away. He looked lost.

Reki almost sat down. Almost asked him what was wrong.

Instead, he walked right past.

It was easier that way.

Reki started eating lunch somewhere else. He told himself it was fine. He was fine. It was just easier this way– easier than sitting at the usual table and pretending that everything was normal, that Langa wasn’t acting weird, that he wasn’t acting weird. But every time he walked past, every time he caught a glimpse of Langa sitting there, staring down at his phone, lost in thought. The weight in Reki’s chest was so heavy it felt like he’d sink straight through the cafeteria floor.

Langa noticed. Reki knew he did. He could feel those fleeting glances in the hall, see the way Langa’s sky-blue brows knit together like he wanted to ask something. He never called Reki over, never chased after him, And maybe that was the worst part– because if Langa wasn’t asking, maybe it meant it didn’t matter that much.

He had only asked once, however, in their skate to school this morning.

And Reki had lied.

Because where would he even start?

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Miya Chinen

Miya noticed, too. It was hard not to.  

He’d only been at Sōei High for a couple of months now– a decision Reki and Langa had practically begged for, down to pleading with Miya’s parents until they caved. And yet, lately, Reki had barely been around.  

Instead of calling him out on it, Miya just plopped down across from him one day, lazily chewing on a piece of bread. He didn’t even look up when he muttered, “You look like you got run over. Twice.”

Reki scoffed, but there was no bite. "Wow. Thanks."

Miya shrugged. "Just saying. You look like crap."

Reki didn’t argue. He didn’t have the energy to. It wasn’t just school draining him. It wasn’t just the whispers, the sidelong glances, the way his name never seemed to be his own anymore– always tied to Langa’s, always something lesser. But, It wasn’t just that.  

It was home.  

Home didn’t feel like home anymore. 

Just an empty house I had to legally reside in.

It was bills piling up. His parents hunched over receipts, whispering about finances, stress lining their faces deeper every day. And somehow, Reki always got dragged into it. “You can’t stay at the skate shop forever. You need to focus on what’s more important in the future, kiddo.”

“You need a backup plan. And I don’t see you being the next World Champion Skateboarder. Maybe you could be Langa’s assistant when he has his break… Sorry honey, but this isn’t gonna cut it out for the future.”  

“Those skateboard designs aren’t a real career, Reki.” Ouch.

They said it like they were helping. Like they weren’t cutting into him with every word. The thing was, they never asked what he wanted.  

His mom used to call him down for dinner. Now, she didn’t bother. His dad used to ask about his skateboarding. Now, the only time he even looked Reki’s way was when he needed something: Pick up groceries. Watch the baby. Be useful.

He wasn’t a priority. He wasn’t even a thought.  

Sometimes, he sat at the dinner table anyway, hoping someone would acknowledge him, but they just moved around him, talking over him like he was part of the furniture. So he stopped waiting. Ate whatever was in the fridge. Or didn’t. No one asked.  

No one noticed.

Miya’s voice snapped him back. “Hey. Earth to dumbass. You alive in there?”

Reki blinked. His fingers were clenched so tight around his fork that his knuckles had gone white. He forced a grin, shoving the feeling down. “Yeah, yeah. Just tired.”

Miya didn’t look convinced. “You say ‘just tired’ like that means anything. What, did you get possessed by a depressed salaryman overnight?”

Reki simply let out a weak laugh, not responding.

Miya didn’t just look at Reki– he studied him intently as he waited for Reki’s response. The dark circles under his eyes, the way he picked at the crust of his sandwich instead of eating it, how his usual easy-going grin hadn’t made an appearance all day. 

“You been sleeping at all?” he asked, tearing off a piece of bread with his teeth. “Or are you just committed to the cryptid lifestyle now?”

Reki huffed, resting his chin on his palm. “Shut up.”

“That’s not a no,” Miya pointed out. “You and Snowflake fighting or something?” he asked, more quieter than his previous questions.

“Just– stop, just shut up. I seriously am just tired. And your presence isn’t helping either.” Reki let out an exasperated sigh, which could be interpreted as either annoyance or fatigue.

Miya noticed he ignored the question about him and Langa, but he chose not to go down that path. Instead, leaned back in his chair, stretching. “Whatever, dude. But if you start pulling some emo ‘nobody cares about me’ bullshit, I’m tripping you off your board next time we skate.”

“Wow,” Reki deadpanned. “Incredibly comforting. Thank you.”

The lunch dismissal bell rings, and both Miya and Reki gather their trash to throw away. Miya noticed how Reki threw away an awful amount of food. He simply rolled his eyes, but his voice softened, just barely. “Just… don’t be stupid. You’re acting weird and everyone is noticing it.”

Yeah. I’m sure everyone’s noticed.

Chapter Text

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Langa Hasegawa

Langa can’t sleep. He tosses and turns in bed, the sheets twisted around him, but he still keeps looking at the cassette sitting on his bedside drawer, the label staring back at him like it’s mocking him. He quietly admits to himself that he’s obsessed. Not in a good way. He’s played it more times than he can count. If his mom would just tell him more, if she would just say something instead of dodging his questions, maybe he wouldn’t feel this way.

But she wouldn’t. And the question kept itching the nape of his neck. 

Did Dad actually die of an illness?

The thought alone made Langa’s throat feel like a python had found itself constricting around Langa’s neck. His mom had always been firm on Dad’s passing– he’d gotten sick, and that was that. But there were so many things that weren’t adding up. The tape itself, his mom’s strange reaction when she found him listening to it at times, and especially the look of aloofness on her face when she had first heard Langa listening to the tape at his Dad’s birthday night. The tape being cut-off was also strange, but with how poor-quality the cassette looked, he was almost sure it was most likely a coincidence.

That’s when Langa remembers– the attic. The attic contained numerous documents. His mom rarely went up there, but Langa had been inside a few times when they first moved in. The place was cluttered with old boxes and forgotten furniture, but he remembered seeing a plethora of papers. Old ones, stacked neatly in plastic containers. If there was anything to find, it would be there. 

Langa untucks the weighted blanket off himself and slips out of his futon, careful not to make any noise. He contemplates whether or not to wear his house slippers. The house is quiet, even the sound of his breaths seem to be like sirens. He tiptoes down the upstairs hall, pausing when he reaches the attic door. His fingers curl around the cold, metal handle as he takes a slow breath. If he gets caught, his mom will definitely get mad.

Since when did I become so reckless? 

The ladder creaks softly as he pulls it down, the hinges stiff from disuse. He winces at the noise but keeps going, climbing carefully into the attic’s stale, dust-filled air. It smells musty and wet, like ecosystems could have been thriving there. Moonlight filters through a tiny window, illuminating the stacks of boxes shoved against the walls. The smell of old wood and paper fills his nose. It’s stuffy, the air thick and untouched. His phone flashlight barely cuts through the dark, casting long, eerie shadows over the stacks of forgotten things. Langa swallows hard, scanning the space.

 Then he sees numerous cardboard boxes. Dozens of them. Some labeled, some not. But his dad’s name is scrawled across a few permanent markers. He then sees a big Cardboard box labeled “Oliver Documents”; his gut tells him that that will be where he finds his answers. His heart pounds as he crouches down, lifting a clear, plastic folder labeled “Eagle Ridge Hospital.”

There .

His heartbeat quickens. He kneels, shoving aside documents, flipping through yellowed papers. Medical records. Files. His breath catches as he skims over dates and words he barely understands. No hospital visits. No admission records. Just prescriptions, therapy notes–

A sharp rustling sound.

Langa freezes. It comes again, from the far corner of the attic. Scratch. Shuffle. Scratch.

His breath catches. Rats .

Nope. Nope. This can’t be happening.

Langa’s heart starts pounding, he snatches a handful of papers and shoves the box back into the corner. He moves fast, carefully but urgently climbing back down. The moment his feet hit the floor, he pushes the attic door shut, pressing it closed until he’s sure nothing can scurry out. At this moment, he doesn’t care about the sound of the attic door shutting behind him; seeing a rat in the dead of night was worse. His skin crawls just thinking about it.

Langa hurriedly grabs a handful of papers before scrambling down the ladder. As soon as he’s on solid ground, he slams the attic door shut and pushes the ladder back up, sealing it tight. He presses his back too the wall, letting out an exasperated sigh as he catches his balance.. His hands tremble slightly as he looks down at the crumpled papers in his grasp. His pulse is racing. Not here. I need to be somewhere safe. My room.

He tiptoes back into his room, sheepishly closing his bedroom door behind him, and spreads the documents across his bed. His eyes scan over the words, trying to make sense of the unfamiliar medical jargon. He recognizes some: depression, anxiety, chronic stress , but others make his stomach churn. Risk factors. Self-destructive tendencies. Suicidal ideation.

His breath stutters. His dad hadn’t been sick. At least, not in the way his mom had always said. He reads and rereads, flipping through page after page, but it’s all disjointed. There are gaps. Missing pieces. Why isn’t there more? Why isn’t there anything about how it ended?

A deep frustration seethes in his chest. He rubs his eyes, glancing at the alarm clock on his desk. 3:04 AM. His brain is foggy, exhaustion weighing down on him, but he doesn’t stop. Panic attacks, Paranoia, Perinatal anxiety, Perinatal OCD. 

Was Dad really struggling that bad mentally…? A-and I never even noticed? What…?

Langa doesn’t even realize it, but he is so deep in thought he bites his fingernails too deep; wincing in pain as he sucks on the blood oozing from his nail bed. The taste of dead skin and metallic blood. He keeps reading, keeps searching, keeps waiting for something that isn’t there.

The door creaks open.

Langa jolts, shoving the papers under his blanket just as his mom steps inside. She blinks at him, then at the glowing numbers of his alarm clock. Her face tightens. “Langa,” she sighs. “It’s three in the morning.” Her voice sounded raspy and tired. 

Langa swallows. I’d been making too much noise, hadn’t I, Mom? He nods, trying to look casual, but his hands are still trembling under the blanket.

His mom’s gaze flickers to his desk– to the cassette, then back to the obnoxious lump on his futon. Something dark passes over her expression, like a storm cloud forming over her head. Then she exhales sharply. “Go to bed. And, stop. Messing. With. Dad’s. Things.”

It comes out too harsh. Too sharp.

Langa flinches and feels his mind come out blank, and instantly, regret flashes across her face. But she doesn’t take it back. She just lingers in the doorway for a second before walking away, pulling the door shut behind her. Langa just stares at the closed door, his chest aching in a way he can’t explain, his eyes widened and started to tremor– and he couldn’t really explain the feeling. He grips the edge of his blanket, the papers crinkling underneath. His throat feels tight, as if the python had come back and constricted around his neck even tighter this time.

He shoves the documents under his futon instead and turns off the light. But sleep doesn’t come easy.

─•~❉᯽❉~•──•~❉᯽❉~•──•~❉᯽❉~•──•~❉᯽❉~•──•~❉᯽❉~•──•~❉᯽❉~•──•~❉᯽❉~•─

Reki Kyan

Bee-dee-beep, bee-dee-beep, bee-dee-be–

“Shus uph.” Reki groans weakly to himself as he tries to pull himself out of bed. He rubs his face and eyes and finds himself confused when he feels wet eyes and dried-up tears strung across his cheeks. Was I seriously crying in my sleep before I woke up? What the hell?

Reki weakly lifts his blanket off his unusually cold body, but didn’t have the energy to wrap and tuck away the futon. He knew his parents would yell but that was a problem for future Reki to deal with. He dressed himself up and stared at himself in the mirror and played around with his oily, brittle hair. Damn, I need a shower. He packed his schoolbag and hurriedly ran downstairs, ignoring his parents– who were probably not looking at him anyway.

He looked at the skateboard that was sitting in the corner collecting dust. He didn’t have any motivation to skate for the past couple of weeks. He bolted out the door and started his long and very slow walk to school.

The second he reached school, his eyes instantly started to scan for Langa, but when he realized what he was doing, his forced himself to stop. He stepped into the classroom with his head facing the floor.

He propped down next to his usual desk, not trying to notice the blue-haired boy 3 feet away from him. Reki rested his head on his elbows, slowly peeking to see eyebagged Langa from a small window of space from the space between the elbows. 

Reki had seen Langa exhausted before. Hell, he’d dragged him home after all-night skate sessions when the guy could barely keep his eyes open. But this? This was something else. This wasn’t just tired. It was drained. It was like he hadn’t slept all night. 

That thought made him worry.

Langa shuffled to his seat, dropping his bag to the floor with a quiet thud . Langa drooped his tired head on his desk and Reki glanced over at him with watchful eyes. Langa’s bangs gently fell over his face, covering his tiredful eyes.

The teacher walked in, and just like that, class started.  

Langa didn’t even last ten minutes.  

Reki kept sneaking glances throughout the lesson, watching as Langa’s eyelids drooped lower and lower. His notes were barely touched, his pen tapping idly against the desk like he was struggling just to keep himself upright. Then, just as the teacher turned her back, Langa’s head dipped forward and hit his arms, completely out.  

Reki clenched his jaw. He wanted to shake him awake, tell him to at least pretend to pay attention, but he hesitated. Langa wasn’t the type to slack off. If he was this out of it, it had to be serious.  

Reki sighed and turned back to his own notes, trying to focus. But even as he stared at the board, trying to make sense of the formulas and sentences, his mind kept drifting back.  

What’s going on with you, Langa? 

The day dragged on.  

Langa was the same in every class– sleepy, sluggish, unresponsive. He barely spoke, barely moved, just kept nodding off whenever he got the chance. Even at lunch, he didn’t eat much, just picked at his food in a half-hearted way.  

Reki thought about saying something. He wanted to say something. But he was exhausted too. So, just like yesterday, he continued to distance himself from Langa. He knew it would hurt their relationship, but he seriously could not afford to have a talk right now. If he were to spill anything  about his family, he would be disowned. And frankly, between his own stress, his parents barely acknowledging him, and the overwhelming weight of everything going on in his life, he just… didn’t have it in him. Not today.  

So he let it go.  

Even today, Miya sat next to him, but didn’t say much. The most impactful thing Miya seemed to do was to give Reki a small water bottle.

“You’re growing skinner by the day. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but others are talking about you. If you aren’t gonna eat anything, at least drink.” Miya offered some helpful–? Advice.

Reki silently accepted, but he had been drinking enough water throughout the day. In fact, that was the only thing he had been consuming. When your parents forget to give you food, and you have completely lost your appetite to eat, you just forget. And so, you drink, thinking its consumption will make up for something. At least it’s something. 

The day went on, they were back from lunch and headed back into their classrooms. There was a math lesson on listing inverse functions in their calculus class, but neither the redhead or the blue-haired boy were paying attention. Reki was straight up tired, and he was knocked out sleeping on his desk. Langa, seemed to be more energetic compared this morning, and stared at Reki’s ruffled hair laying like a bush on the desk. He stared and stared, and zoned out to such an extent, when Reki woke up, they were both staring into each other’s eyes. Langa quickly turned his head away, but even he didn’t know why he did that. Reki didn’t expect Langa to already be staring at him, which came as a shock.

Both boys turned their heads opposite from each other in embarrassment ? They didn’t understand what the others were trying to communicate with them, and were so caught up in trying to understand their own feelings first. They were thinking hard, but their deep thoughts were interrupted by the teacher for the “end of day announcement surprise.”

“Alright kids, as you all have been patiently waiting for the surprise, we want you to know beforehand– if you cannot attend this surprise, please do not worry. You students have one more year ahead of yourselves to make the most of your school years. So, for your surprise this year, we will have a class trip to Kyoto! Specifically, the Hiyoshi Forest Resort! We’ll hike through scenic trails, try fun activities like zip lining and canoeing, and experience the peaceful beauty of the forest environment!” The teacher explained with elation about their class trip.

The whole class buzzed with excitement at the mention of Kyoto, students sitting up straighter, eyes bright with anticipation. Reki felt a spark of excitement too– trips like this were rare, and the idea of escaping school, and even home, even for a little while, was way too good to pass up.  

Before he could even think, he turned to Langa. “Yo. We should pair up.”  

Langa blinked slowly, as if it took him a moment to register the words. His expression stayed blank.  

And for the first time, Reki hesitated . He wanted to stay quiet with Langa, but the excitement of his offer to Langa ruined everything. Well, better to at least try and talk to him during the trip than talk to him at school, I guess.

Langa always looked at him with something there . Even when he was tired, even when he was spaced out, his eyes had a warmth to them– a flicker of attention, a subtle pull of a smile.  

But right now, there was nothing. Just distant, tired blue.  

Reki’s stomach twisted at Langa’s foreign response.

The teacher then grabbed a pile of papers from her desk, licked her index finger, and started distributing the permission slip forms. And that’s when she said it. “Make sure to get these signed! The cost will be 20,000 yen per student!”

And just like that, Reki’s excitement vanished.  

Twenty thousand yen. Twenty fucking thousand yen.  

His fingers tightened around the permission slip the teacher handed him. He could already hear his parents' response in his head. “We don’t have extra money for that, Reki. Focus on things that matter.”

He clenched his jaw, shoving the paper into his pocket, his heart sinking. He had the money from his job, but with how Reki’s parents had been practically stealing his money he had earned himself, he knew there was no chance they were letting him go with 20 thousand yen.

Langa didn’t notice Reki’s changed body language.  

He just kept staring down at his own slip, fingers drumming idly against the desk, mind a thousand miles away.  

Somewhere Reki wasn’t sure he could reach.

Chapter Text

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Langa Hasegawa

The balmy sunlight temporarily blinded Langa as he woke up with hot bursts of whiteness in his eyes. He grumbled and cocooned himself under his covers, but he could still feel the warmth of the sun’s embrace pouring over him in his blanket. It was finally the weekend, but to Langa, the past couple of days had drowned him into a meaningless state.

He decided to finally get himself up, but he feels something beneath his feet. It was a singular piece of paper he had forgotten to hide from last night. His heart felt heavy all of a sudden when he remembered his mom’s voice, that hung in the air like smoke.

“Stop. Messing. With. Dad’s. Things.”

Too sharp. Too harsh.

And somehow, Langa blamed himself for it.

It was his fault, right? He was the one who couldn’t leave it alone. He was the one chasing a ghost and half-finished sentences on an old cassette tape that probably is just too old to function like some obsessive, broken kid who didn’t know when to stop.

He didn’t bother to look at the paper. He had to distract himself. He tucked away the futon, placed the paper on his desk, and got himself ready for the day. 

He treaded over to the bathroom, shutting the door with a soft click. He turned the knob of the shower on, and began stripping his clothes in a sluggish manner, and letting them fall where they landed. He stared at his reflection in the fogging mirror, studying his own face. Pale skin, flushed faintly from the warmth of the room, hair a mess of blue strands hanging in his face. 

Langa had never been the insecure type, he simply didn’t find himself attractive or ugly. He didn’t think much of himself, and he wasn’t anything special– it was just a face after all. Yet somehow, Reki’s face flickered into his head, and it made something tighten in his chest. Reki was cute, handsome in a way that felt effortless, with those freckled cheeks and easy smiles, and Langa found himself wondering (not for the first time) how someone like that didn’t already have a girlfriend. 

Seeing his face get blurry with the hot steam filling the bathroom and further fogging up the mirror. Langa stepped beneath the stream, the scalding water hitting his skin in heavy, stinging waves, rolling down his shoulders, tracing the curve of his spine, slipping down the length of his back, and over the sharp cut of his hips. The water seemed to cascade down the contours of his sculpted abs, something which had become more noticeable after his hours he had dedicated to skating. His skin prickled as the air grew thicker and more humid. It felt good in a way that made him shudder; made his mind drift somewhere between discomfort and relief. He tipped his head back, closing his eyes as the water poured over his hair, plastering wet strands to his neck, his chest, his face. With each droplet pressing to his skin, they were washing away the bitter taste of his mother’s lingering words, the crushing weight of unfinished conversations, the ache he didn’t know how to name.

He thought of S, of the cool bite of air and the city streetlights in the distance. S was a language his body still knew when his head forgot how to cope. He hadn’t gone in weeks. There hadn’t been time, not with Reki avoiding him, not with school finals pressing down on them. He missed it– missed the rush, missed Joe, missed Cherry, missed Shadow, even missed Miya, whom he noticed was spending more time with Reki during lunch. He missed the way it drowned everything else out. He especially missed the way the wheels clattered against the pavement, the late night sneak-outs, the sound of Reki’s laugh at his side.

The water slid over his collarbones and down his stomach, pooling at his feet before disappearing into the drain. He stayed under the spray too long, until his skin turned pink and his breath left in slow, soft exhales. There was something almost hypnotic about the way the heat made his body feel loose, pliant, like his muscles could finally relax even if his head wouldn’t. And for a moment, he let it, let his hands linger over the curve of his ribs, let his fingertips follow the drops of water as they clung to his skin. He wasn’t sure when the simple act of showering had turned into something like this– slow, heavy, and more than a little indulgent. He hated how much he needed it.

When he finally stepped out, the room was so thick with steam, he felt like he had been in a sauna. He grabbed a towel, dragging it roughly through his hair, shaking loose the tangled strands that clung to the nape of his neck and his damp shoulders. He let the warmth hug his pink skin while he pulled on a loose, slightly oversized tank top and a pair of old, soft cotton shorts that clung a little too slightly to his still-damp skin.

It was still early and the house was filled with a comfortable silence. He figured he should at least try to get some homework done, if only so he didn’t have to go downstairs, and didn't have to risk seeing his mom sitting in that same spot at the kitchen table, pretending not to look at him. 

Since that night, she hadn’t said much. Yesterday, she’d been gone for most of the day, and when she finally came home, the only thing she asked was whether he wanted maki or sashimi for dinner. The tension between them was a quiet impale neither of them seemed ready to address.

Langa hadn’t brought up the class trip either. The permission slip was still crumpled in his school bag, untouched and unsigned. He’d thought about mentioning it a dozen times, but he could never seem to spit it out. 

By the time he finally sat down at his desk, the sunlight had shifted and was casting a soft glow across his floor. His math textbook lay open in front of him and his head felt heavy. His mind was both exhausted and empty, his eyelids drooping despite the stream of daylight pouring inside. He tried to focus, dragging his pencil clumsily across the page, answering problems he wasn’t even really reading. He blinked, head nodding once, twice, before jerking himself upright. It was useless. His brain felt slow, fogged over, weighed down with everything he hadn’t said and everything he didn’t want to think about. The numbers in front of him meant nothing. None of this did.

Then came the sound– soft, hesitant.

“Langa? Can you come down for a minute?”

His chest tightened and he was awfully aware of his surroundings suddenly. The voice wasn’t sharp this time, wasn’t biting like it had been two nights ago, but that almost made it worse. He froze, with the pencil still in his hand and her words sitting heavy in the air. He didn’t answer right away, didn’t trust his voice, so he just stood up, legs stiff from sitting too long, and made his way downstairs.

His mom was waiting for him in the kitchen, having and exhausted look on her face and a cup of cold, untouched tea sitting on the dining table between them. 

She sighed, her gaze dropping to the inside of the cup. “I… I wanted to apologize,” she started, her voice thick in a way that made Langa’s skin crawl, because it sounded like guilt, like grief that had been sitting there for too long. “For what I said the other night. I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. It wasn’t fair.”

Langa stayed quiet. He didn’t move, didn’t let anything show on his face, though his heart was pounding in his chest. He felt his own pulse drown out everything else. He hated this part– the way she was hesitating, like this wasn’t just something she could rip open and get over with.

She took a long, shuddery inhale. “I… should have told you sooner. About your father. About what really happened. You’ve probably already figured most of it out by now. I’m so sorry, Langa. I thought you weren’t ready to know the truth then.” Langa could hear her gulp her own words.

And just like that, it was out there. The truth he’d spent so long picking apart in fragments, in broken cassette tape recordings and forgotten medical records. It wasn’t even surprising– not anymore that is. The words didn’t shock him. They just landed somewhere low in his stomach, heavy and sinking. The words didn’t shock him. Instead, they landed deep low in his stomach, heavy and sinking.

He couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Didn’t even know what to feel. He wanted to ask her to repeat and further elaborate on how Dad died, but both him and his mom knew the answer. He wanted her to say suicide so fucking bad it almost made him recoil at the thought of her hiding something so large from him. 

He looked at her then, because he had to, and what he felt wasn’t relief. It wasn’t even sadness. It was something colder, something sharp yet so hollow. Because he didn’t understand. He couldn’t understand how she could keep something like this from him for almost two years– not when it had mattered so much, not when it had torn holes through the both of them.

But still, he said nothing.

Because maybe it was his fault too. Maybe he was too emotionally immature, too fragile, too obsessed with things he wasn’t supposed to touch. Maybe if he had just let it go like she wanted, none of this would have happened.

Langa continued to have the aching disbelief that his own mother had thought he was too weak to handle something this important, that she could decide for him what he should or shouldn’t know about his own father. It made his skin feel tight, made his hands want to curl into fists. And yet, all he did was nod, stiff and wordless, because he didn’t trust himself to know what would come out if he tried to speak. 

She opened her mouth like she wanted to say more, but he didn’t give her the chance. “I need to… finish homework,” he mumbled, not even sure if she heard him, and turned back toward the stairs. The words left unsaid felt like the air in the house was suffocating him.

When he shut the door to his room behind him, he didn’t have an ounce of anger in him. He was just simply burnt out by the turn of events, and the air in his room felt different. He propped his feet up against the desk and made himself comfortable in his office chair. The math book stayed open, his homework abandoned. I need a distraction. Instead, he reached for his phone, sinking further into his chair and moved his legs so that they were pulled up loosely against his chest now. His fingers moved without thinking, swiping through old photos in his gallery. 

Reki.

There were so many photos of them– blurry, laughing, stupid things. Reki grinning with his hair sticking up under his headband, Reki with a popsicle hanging out of his mouth, Reki laying on skatepark ground in the middle of summer, sweaty and sunburned, pointing at the sky like an idiot. Langa stared at them as a soft smile curled at his lips, one after the other, and he felt as if a dull blade was cutting his throat. He missed him. 

It wasn’t just skating, though that ache lived in him too– buried deep in his chest. It was the small things. The way Reki’s voice always felt so soft and would send him a flood of calm waves crashing on his ears. How he always stole sips of Langa’s water bottle without asking, even though he had his own. The way he would frown so seriously when working on board designs, his freckled face smudged with pencil marks, and then look up with this bright, stupid grin when he noticed Langa watching.

Langa missed the way Reki always made up dumb nicknames for him, Snowball , Snowflake , Blueberry . Even when they annoyed him, there was something stupidly comforting about hearing them. It made him feel seen. It made him feel like Reki was paying attention in his own, chaotic way.

And he missed that stupid habit Reki had of leaning against him when he was tired– not like it was a big deal, not like it meant anything. Reki would drop down next to him at the skatepark, shoulder brushing Langa’s, legs kicked out in front of them like it was nothing, like it was just what they did. Langa hadn’t realized how much he’d relied on that closeness, until they weren’t there anymore.

He’d miss he way he’d complain about his siblings, about homework, about whatever dumb thing happened that day, his words spilling out fast and careless while they lay side by side under the stars, boards discarded in the grass nearby. Langa would just listen, sometimes throwing in a quiet comment, but mostly just letting Reki’s voice carry him.

And yet, they barely spoke anymore. Now, there was nothing but old TV static where all those sounds used to be.

Langa’s throat ached. It was almost ridiculous, how much space Reki took up in his head. And it scared him a little. How much he missed him. How much he still wanted him around.

He swallowed hard, scrolling slower now, and his chest ached. He missed Reki. Missed his dad. Missed talking to his mom like it wasn’t a battlefield waiting to happen. Everything felt so far away.

Without thinking, his thumb tapped open Reki’s contact. He noticed the last message he had sent was almost from 3 weeks ago. “ Do u know when is Nakumura-Sensei’s exam?” Reki had left him on read, but he had answered Langa’s question in school. On the day of the exam. He stared at the empty message box, and typed out a single line.

        ╭────────────────────────────╮
        │ Hey, are you going to the   │
        │ class trip?|                │
        ╰────────────────────────────╯

Chapter Text

─•~❉᯽❉~•──•~❉᯽❉~•──•~❉᯽❉~•──•~❉᯽❉~•──•~❉᯽❉~•──•~❉᯽❉~•──•~❉᯽❉~•─

Reki Kyan

On the weekend afternoon, Reki found himself walking to Dope Sketch, with his backpack digging uncomfortably into his collarbones. His skateboard was busy collecting dust at home, untouched, unwanted, like it didn’t belong to him anymore; a memory he wasn’t allowed to have.

The only reason that drove him to go to Dope, even when he had zero motivation, was because of home. At least I have an excuse to leave that shithole, even though that might not last much longer.

The bell above the shop door chimed softly as Reki clocked in for work. As he headed back behind the counter, the scent of sawdust, grip tape, and a faint trace of metal flooded his senses. Something about working at Dope, this being one of his true passions, made Reki feel guilty for not finding himself energetic these past weeks. 

He sat down on the half-broken office chair, bandaged with duct tape around the arm rests as it was leaking out yellow foam from the cushion rims. He anxiously pulled out an old skateboard needing maintenance from underneath the desk, and got his tool kit out as well, but something in him could not find the willpower to start. And that made him feel like a worthless failure. He took a heavy sigh and rested his chin on the counter table, looking at and over at absolutely nothing.

When he was done surveying the empty shop, he pulled out his phone, and his thumb instinctively hovered over Langa’s name in his contacts. The screen glared up at him, that same little profile icon—one Reki had stupidly screenshotted from a skate video ages ago because Langa looked so focused and carefree. His heart tugged a gnawing throb in his chest. He opened the chat and stared at the empty message box.

       ╭────────────────────────────╮

        │ hey are u going to the                        │

        │ class trip?|                                        │

        ╰────────────────────────────╯

He knew he would blame himself later for not talking. Besides, the teacher would pair them up together, right? Wait. Did Langa have someone already? Is that why he was ignoring me? No, Langa isn’t avoiding me. I am. The weight of his thoughts sat like a rock in his stomach, making it hard to breathe. He scrolled slightly through the messages, where he saw the last message Langa had sent, asking about when the test was. Reki left him on read, but he still had answered the question—on the day of the test however.

Reki was so deep in his thoughts that he didn’t notice Oka, the store manager, come in. “Reki,” Oka’s voice cut through the air, low but firm. “No phones on the job, remember?”

Reki got started and started shoving his phone into his pocket like he’d been caught doing something worse. “Ah—sorry, Oka-san,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair, trying to look busy, though his heart was still thudding too fast, his head too full. “I just… got distracted.”

Oka looked at him and leaned on the counter. “It’s okay. I don’t blame you honestly, business has been crickets this week. Are you alright, though? You’ve been out of it lately.”

Are you okay? Am I okay? Why am I so nervous all of a sudden? Ohmygosh, why am I sweating. Talk Reki. Talk. Stop talking to yourself in your head. TELL HIM HO!

“Yea, nothing much.” Reki hesitated. The words slipped out before he could stop them.  I have to say something or else he’s gonna ask what happened before everything goes wrong. Tell the truth, Reki.

“My, um, parents… they don’t want me working here anymore.” A pregnant pause filled the store room.

That made Oka’s brows lift in surprise on his usually calm face. “Why’s that?”

Reki shrugged, forcing a practiced grin. “They don’t think it’s worth it. Not a ‘real job.’ I mean… skateboards? Designs? It’s stupid, right?” Did I say too much?

“It’s not stupid. You’re good at this, Reki. Best I’ve seen in years. Not a lot of people around here have your kind of creativity and hands—you know how a board’s supposed to feel. That’s rare.” He gave him a small, crooked smile. His voice was soft but certain.  “Come in when you can. As much as you can. Maybe if you stick with it, I can finally justify giving you a raise.”

Reki half laughed, but the sound was simply too thin in his ears. “Really? I’d like that.”

Oka disappeared back into the office, leaving Reki alone with the too-loud sound of his own breathing and thoughts. After a moment, he dragged out a sheet of blueprint paper from under the counter, smoothing it out with the heel of his hand. His pencil was wrapped in a worn, sticky rubber grip. He held the pencil by the tips of all his fingers except for the pinky. The ring finger was tucked underneath, resting behind the pencil.

People used to say he held pencils weird. He never thought much of it. He’d seen artists online who held theirs the same way; didn’t seem so strange then. Maybe it had started way earlier than he realized. His best friend from his childhood had held him like that too, messy and loose and natural. Maybe that was where he picked it up, just like how he had picked up skateboarding from him as well. Maybe it had just… stuck.

Focus, Reki. Now isn’t the time to miss two people instead of one. His chest tightened raw. He pressed the pencil tip harder against the paper, willing his hand to move, to do anything. The sharp thoughts struck like lightning in his head: Why am I so distracted? Why can’t I get it together?  I don’t understand anything anymore. Why am I like this? Am I really just a waste of space? Why does everything I love slip away?

His chest cinched tight as if his ribs were collapsing in on each other. His pencil trembled slightly from his grip. the lines on the page blurring at the edges—not from tears, but from how light his head felt. He hadn’t eaten since… when? Thursday? Maybe. He couldn’t remember. His stomach didn’t even bother to growl anymore; it had given up asking.

He pressed the pencil harder into the paper, but his hand wouldn’t move the way he wanted. Reki’s mind was spinning down a never-ending spiral staircase, faster and faster until he couldn’t tell where the steps ended. Move. Think. Do something. Wake up.

Without thinking, His jaw snapped shut without warning. Too hard . The throbbing pain shot through him, along with the copper flooding his mouth. Finally, something he could feel.

He winced, sucking in a sharp breath, and shoved himself up from his chair. A wave of nauseating dizziness hit him, and he had to grab the edge of the counter to steady himself before staggering toward the tiny store bathroom. 

Cold water poured from the faucet as he leaned over the sink and spitting blood into the drain. He didn’t bleed too much, but he had clearly bit down hard enough where it would leave an open wound. The red swirled into the water and disappeared. Reki rolled his tongue around the area where he had bit down and stared at his reflection. He had messy hair: slightly matted, red waves, dandruff, too—probably. A scrawny, tired face that didn’t look like his anymore. His mouth still tasted like metal and stung. He grabbed brown paper towels that felt like sandpaper and pressed them to the cut, trying to ignore the way his hands trembled as he tried to soak up as much blood as he could.

When he returned back to the front of the shop, he noticed Sketchy creeping from the back office. The little fennec fox trotted over towards him, with her oversized ears bobbing with each step. She hopped lightly onto the counter, sniffing curiously at the mess Reki had left behind—the blueprint paper, the abandoned pencil, and the scattered screws and wheels. Without thinking, Reki reached down to pet her—His fingers gently scratching the soft fur between her ears. Sketchy purred and pressed her tiny warmth into his touch.

He sat down and dragged the heavy toolbox back onto his lap as Sketchy curled up beside his elbow. The only sounds were the clinking of tools and the occasional rustle of Sketchy’s movements. The low hum of the shop’s lights buzzing created an stagnant ambience.

At some point, his tongue grazed the inside of his cheek. The sting made him flinch. Still sore . He stared down at his hands. Had he really done that? Bit down—just to feel something?

 Like his body had known before he did that he needed something— anything —to shove him back into motion.Like it needed something sharp to break through the static in his head. To give him a reason to do instead of just thinking.

That scared him a little. But he didn’t stop working.

Hours had passed into a dull, shapeless blur. It was deep into the evening when Oka finally reappeared, yawning as he ran his messy brown hair with his hand. He paused in the doorway, blinking at the sight of a baggy-eyed Reki still hunched over the counter that was surrounded by a plethora of loose items.

“Didn’t think you’d still be here, Reki,” Oka said, rubbing the back of his neck. Sketchy’s collar gave a soft jingle as she hopped down and trotted toward him.

Reki stretched back in the chair, rolling his shoulders until something popped. When he reached behind to press his thumbs into the curve of his waist, his hands hesitated. He could feel it again—how much smaller he’d gotten. The sharp dip of bone under skin that wasn’t always that noticeable. His fingers hovered there a second too long before dropping back into his lap.

“Yeah. Honestly? Same.” He glanced over at Oka picking up a sleepy Sketchy. “But… I thought about what you said. I’ll try to keep coming.” 

Even if this might be the last time I come.

The cut in his cheek pulsed again, at the corner of his mouth when he smiled. Or tried to. What came out instead was a dry and cracked laugh that didn’t even sound like him.

“Well, the shop is closing in…10 minutes!” Oka cradled Sketchy in his arms as he went outside the door. 

Reki stared at the just-closed door and closely listened to the soft chime of the bell. He looked at the mess at the counter and rose up slowly from the chair. After hours of hunching over, it felt as though his bones had been carved into the worn cushion. But even the comfort of standing felt hollow because his body was as tired as his mind. He exhaled a dramatic sigh, and began to clean up his mess.

After putting boards back in the pick-up area, putting away his tools and screws, packing away his blueprints and brushing off any debris which lay on his table, Reki looked at the work he had gotten done. There was a layered stack of at least 14 skateboards he had managed to fix. However, Reki didn’t feel accomplished. Instead, he felt a draining relief .

There was no pride when he’d surveyed the work he’d done. No feeling of fulfillment, no feeling of completeness. He couldn’t quite place why it felt wrong, why it felt incomplete. Maybe it was because none of this really mattered. Not the boards. Not the tools. Not even the shop itself. He was glad he had gotten some motivation, even if it was just for making a living.

Reki swept up the last of the sawdust on the counter, ran the vacuum over the store carpet, and dramatically sighed again. He glanced at the clock—it was nearly closing time.

He grabbed his time card with a mechanical detachment, wrote down the time he’d clocked out, and punched the hole. His head hung low as he locked up the doors behind him and let the cool air slip beneath his hoodie and clung onto his bare wrists. The low, sunken sun painted the stores across the street in gold.

Reki noticed Joe and Cherry were meandering by the wall, goofing off into the sunset. Joe had a can of beer in his hand and a smug grin on his face, while Cherry stood just close enough to look like he might shove him if provoked. Or kiss him. Or both.

“Hey, Reks! Didn’ts know you’se be here!,” Joe called, his speech obviously slurred with his excess alcohol intake. Cherry, pushing off the wall with his shoulder, added onto Joe’s claim. “Didn’t think we’d actually catch you here. Thought you might’ve gone off to join a monastery or something.”

Reki blinked and his eyebrows slightly knitted at Joe’s comment. “What?”

“You’se been MEA,” Joe said, nodding toward him.

“M I A.” Cherry corrected Joe. 

“You and Lasanga. S hasn’t been the same without you or Lasanga. All the S watchers are pondering when you’se come back. I mean, they were starting to thinks you’d gotten abducted by aliens. Like this: Wrrrzzzzk! Or Zhhh-POW!”

Cherry made a quiet noise beside him, equal parts disdain and amusement. 

Reki forced a laugh. “We’ve just been busy,” he weakly shrugged. “School, mostly. Stuff. Finals.”

“Finals…” Cherry raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” Reki said, stuffing his hands into the pocket of his hoodie and glancing down at the sidewalk. “Just a lot going on. That’s all.” It sounded better than the truth. Looked better, too, if he didn’t meet their eyes.

Joe’s smile didn’t quite fade, but it tilted, softer around the edges. “You look tired, bro. You okay?” Joe added, slightly quieter this time. “You’se not skating, either,”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed it, too. Since when do you walk home?” Cherry asked.

“I–I’m fine!” Reki said too quickly, too brightly. “Really. I mean it.” Reki shifted on his feet, and he was still looking down.“I mean… I guess I just didn’t feel like it today.”

It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the whole truth, either.

Skating had started to feel wrong. Like putting on clothes that didn’t fit. He still loved it. Of course he did. He just couldn’t feel it the same way. Not right now. Not when every push forward felt like he was leaving something behind.

“I didn’ts know you were the sentimental, babe,”

“Don’t mind him. He’s on his fourth drink and two hours of sleep. Also, I am not—”

“You are.”

They kept bickering and their words came out randomly—sharp, ridiculous, strangely affectionate. Joe slung an arm over Cherry’s shoulder at one point, leaning in too close, laughing like it didn’t cost him anything, like it was the easiest thing in the world. Joe laughed again and murmured something—low, almost seductive. “You’re hot when you’re clingy like tis.”

Cherry scowled, but he didn’t move away. Didn’t even try to. The corner of his mouth twitched upward, “Maybe I just have better taste when I’m drunk.”

Reki watched them, stomach tight in a way he didn’t fully understand. Joe said something to Cherry after, but it was too quiet for him to comprehend. 

It wasn’t bad, whatever it was that they were doing. It wasn’t even that weird. They were like that sometimes. Touchy, half-flirty, too familiar for it to mean nothing—but Reki had always figured it was just a joke. I mean, he and Langa were like that too, sometimes. But tonight, it felt different. Like watching something private, or maybe it was because they were both intoxicated.

He didn’t know why that made his chest ache. He looked away, heart stuttering in varied rhythms for reasons he didn’t want to pick at. He didn’t know why it bothered him. He just knew it did.

Joe’s tone shifted again, quieter and slightly less slagged. “Seriously, though. Are you okay?”

Reki didn’t quite meet his eyes. He fidgeted with the hem of his hoodie, looking down at the very interesting pavement. “Yeah. Just tired. I should head back before it gets too dark.”

Cherry hesitated, but interrupted Reki as soon as he finished his sentence “You… eating?”

Reki flinched a bit. The question cut deeper than it should have. “Yeah,” he lied. “Totally. My mom’s making curry tonight. You’re too worried about kids’ personal lives. It’s kinda weird honestly.”

His mom wasn’t making shit . She was on another night shift, and his little sisters were probably eating leftover rice with soy sauce again. But he wasn’t about to say that.

Cherry’s unreadable gaze studied him for a moment. “Text us. Next time you’re out skating.”

“Yeah. For sure.”

Joe’s voice softened as he came to approach Reki closer, with his head lingering just above Cherry’s shoulder and filling the pregnant pause. “Don’t disappear, dumbass.”

Cherry and Joe slowly walked away, waving Reki bye with their drunken smiles. Reki managed a crooked wave, but it had acted on muscle memory rather than intention.

Reki walked back to his house, head down, hands buried in his hoodie, trying to pretend he wasn’t hoping the house lights would be off. That everyone would already be asleep. That he could slide into his room unnoticed and let the day rot out of him in silence. 

But the lights were on.

He hesitated outside on the porch for a second enough for the weight in his stomach to settle heavy and his brain to become clouded with uncertainty. Reki slowly pushed the door open.

His mother was standing in the kitchen. Arms crossed, mouth drawn into a line that could cut glass. His father was sitting at the table, silent, one elbow on the wood, hand resting beside something heavy and familiar. 

My skateboard.

The door clicked shut behind him like a gunshot. “Are you at that stupid job again?” his mom sharply asked.

Reki didn’t answer. He dropped his bag by the door and toed off his shoes, head low. The kitchen smelled like spoiled coffee and burnt rice. The television in the living room was still on, muted, casting shifting blue light across the cold, tiled-floor.

“That job…is getting you nowhere,” his father responded with a low, tight voice.

“I’m helping,” Reki said before he could stop himself, the words small and breathless. “I give you everything I make.”

His mom turned, fast. “Money isn’t the point, Reki.”

Reki blinked. “It’s not?” What fucking is then?

“No!” she snapped. “It’s about what you’re doing with your life. With your future. You come home late, you skip meals, you’ve barely passed half your classes—and for what? Some dumb shop job and a bunch of skateboard freaks who smoke pot on the daily? Is that the influence you want in your life? Because you’re not my son if you do.”

Reki’s throat tightened and he mentally felt something snakelike crawl up his body. “It’s not dumb. And they don’t smoke pot.”

“I’ve seen them. Weed and opioid addicts. How do I not know you’re not influenced by them? You think this is a life?” she continued, stepping closer. “You think skateboarding is a real future? Well not anymore. Langa from Canada got a better chance in getting a skating career than you.”

“I am trying, okay?” Reki said. The words came out cracked. His hands were shaking. “I’m doing what I can. I–I'm not asking for anything. Just—just let me—”

“Let you throw your life away?” she cut in. “Let you waste your time chasing some imaginary dream that won’t feed you, won’t house you, won’t get you anywhere or anything but a broken spine?”

“I’m not wasting anything!” Reki snapped before he could stop himself. “I’m working every day. I’m tired all the time. I’m doing everything I can—and it’s never enough for you, is it?”

“You wanna talk back now? Tired all the time? I take care of five kids. One of them is an adult who thinks his life is so stressful and depressing and tiring.” his mom said, voice dangerously quiet.

“You don’t take care of me. You care more for the money than you do about me. None of this is about me. None of this is about Himari, either! None of this about Koyomi, or Nanaka, or Chihiro, or Dad! You don’t even see me. You just want me to be what’s convenient. For you.”

His mother stared at him for a long, unbearable second. Both of them were breathless. Reki turned his blurry eyes toward his Dad, who continued to look at his feet. Then his mom did what he expected would happen.

She reached forward and jerked the skateboard from his father’s hands.

She slammed the board hard against the countertop, which made a loud crack, the tail splintering just slightly. Enough for Reki to wince like she had hit him. She hit it again, angling it so the metal trucks clanged sharply against the granite, and this time the wood dented deep.

“Stop it! Please, no!”

She dropped it to the floor.

She then drove her heel down with immense force on the weakened tail continuously. The board didn’t break in half. But it was ruined. The tail bent out of shape, grip tape torn, the once-smooth surface now jagged and frayed like the whole thing was gasping for air. The designs Reki made on them had been scratched and ruined. The maple wood of the board was so warped and splintered, it made Reki wince.

Everything felt too loud. The refrigerator hum. The TV flickering. The sound of his own heartbeat in his ears. The sound of nothing coming from his father as he just stood there, stagnant. His mother was breathing hard, like the violence had steadied her. Reki didn’t want to admit it to himself, but she looked murderous.

Reki didn’t remember going upstairs. He just turned and walked. Didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. He didn’t feel real. 

He opened his door too fast and he slid it shut behind him with a muted click. He collapsed against it instantly, with his knees buckled and his back scraping down the wood until he was sitting curled in on himself. Arms wrapped tight around his ribs like he could hold his breaking body together. 

At first, he didn’t cry loud. Didn’t sob. Just lay there on the floor, silent, as the tears slipped out of him like his body had forgotten how to hold anything in. His face burned. He didn’t bother to wipe the tears because they weren’t the kind that wanted to be hidden. They simply just soaked the collar of his sweatshirt.

It was pathetic. All of it. How he couldn't even name the pain, only feel it, like a dull knife twisting and turning over and over in his heart. There was no real reason. Not one he could put to words. Not Langa. Not his mom. Not the smashed skateboard. Just this unbearable wrongness that lived inside him now. A structure made of shame, a cathedral no one prayed in anymore.

Why did it hurt so bad?

He hadn’t skated in weeks. The board had dust on it. It lived mostly under his bed now or standing right outside the front door. So why had he just stood there, silent, as she crushed it? Why had he watched it like it was his own ribs she’d cracked under her heel?

Maybe because that board had still been his . The last part of him that still felt like him . Because everything was truly slipping away from his fingers–including his life.

And now it was gone.

His mouth tasted like dry static. He stripped off his hoodie which was too hot, too tight, and stumbled to his bed. He pressed his cheek into the pillow and let the damp stick to his skin. Two hours passed. Maybe three. He didn’t really feel the time. He just stayed in an airless space between hunger and nausea, his heart ticking quietly like a bomb inside his chest.

The sound of the front door distracted him from himself. He didn’t lift his head, but he knew who it was. He heard soft giggles from behind his door.

“Koyomi-chan?” he whispered, and for the first time that day, his voice didn’t sound dead.

“Onii-chan?” her voice chirped from behind the door as she knocked. “Can I come in?”

He hesitated. Then rose just enough to unlock it.

She stepped inside and cautiously examined and scanned his room—the unwashed clothes, the sour air. She wrinkled her nose, but didn’t say anything about it at first. Just looked at him worryingly.

Her face was sunburned, but her bright eyes stayed full of life. “I’m back! The camping trip was so fun! We roasted marshmallows and mochi and I saw a raccoon and—You look kinda like a zombie. Oni-chan, you got really skinny.” her head tilted to the side.

He laughed, sort of. It sounded more like a cough. “Missed you too, Koyomi-chan.”

Her eyes studied his hollow cheeks and dull eyes with dark rings. She stepped closer and pulled something out of her pocket. “My friend gave me a Black Thunder bar on the trip. I saved it for you.”

She held out the slightly squished bar in her hands as an offering. He took it because she wasn’t going to stop looking at him like that if he didn’t. The wrapper was warm from when he took it from her. 

“Thanks.”

“Eat it now.”

“I will later.”

“No.” she affirmed, crossing her arms. “You always say that. Eat it now or I’m telling Mom. Is this why you have gotten thin?”

He hesitated. The wrapper crinkled in his hand and the smell hit his nose. Chocolate sounded like a brick in his throat. Sweetness like poison.

“Geez… You’re sounding like mom. I’m not really hungry though…I don’t like chocolate,” he lied. His hands trembled around the bar. “I’ll have it at dinner later. Really.” He started to peel the wrapper off, hoping to give most of it away to Koyomi as he held his breath when snapping the bar in half.

“Nope. I already had one. This is yours. Whole thing. Now eat it.” She sat down beside him with her arms crossed.

His stomach turned. His throat closed in like it was trying to choke him before the food even reached it. The thought of chewing something so rich, so real , made his skin crawl. But Koyomi was watching. He couldn’t stand to disappoint her. He carefully brought it to his lips like it was a sin.

The artificial taste flooded his mouth. His body rejected it almost instantly. Not physically. Emotionally. It felt wrong to eat it. Like he hadn’t earned it. he shoved the rest in his mouth anyway, chewing until his teeth hurt. It tasted like guilt. Like kindness he didn’t deserve. Like something he would have to undo later. He didn’t deserve it. But he chewed. And swallowed.

And hated himself.

There was an awkward pregnant pause as Koyomi watched him intently. “Hey, Oni-chan? Y-you’ll tell me, right…? If something’s wrong?” she asked softly, looking up at him through her lashes.

“Yeah, I promise.” It burned him to say lies.

She hugged him, arms wrapped around his waist, her face pressed into the side of his musty shirt. Her warmth was unbearable. Kindness always hurt more when it was unexpected. He clung to her, hard until he memorized the way her breath felt against his ribs. The smell of her freshly washed hair.

Then she pulled away.

“I’m gonna go unpack,” she said, oblivious to the gaping wound she’d left behind. “Love you.”

And then she was gone. Reki just collapsed there, holding the crumpled wrapper in his hand, the taste of chalky chocolate still sour in his mouth.

He hated himself for eating.

He hated himself for crying again. Hated how desperate he’d been for just that—a hug, those two words, a fucking candy bar. How starved he felt for something no one else seemed to notice he was missing.

He didn’t skate anymore. He didn’t laugh anymore. He barely even was anymore. He never understood himself, really. The things he’d done or done to himself. He didn’t understand why he opposed the very thing keeping people alive. Maybe it was about control. Maybe it was about not deserving comfort. About trying to shrink into something so small the world couldn’t find him. Or maybe it was punishment. A way to make the pain visible. To make it earned .

He staggered to the bathroom, legs weak, head buzzing. The light wasn’t on. He didn’t bother closing the door. Didn’t need privacy. No one was coming. No one ever came when it mattered. 

Everything smelled like soap. His palms slammed against the porcelain basin, his breath coming in stuttering gasps. The mirror caught him—eyes red-rimmed and wild, face pale and streaked with drying tears, lips bitten raw from pressing everything in. He couldn’t look. Couldn’t stand to see the mess he had made of himself.

He looked down at the clean sink. But then the memory came back: Koyomi and the sweetness of chocolate and guilt in his mouth.

He felt the cut from today still swelling, too as he shoved two fingers down his throat; forcing them past his lips. 

Gagged once. Twice. His throat convulsed and spit spilled down his chin. Nothing.

His body resisted. His body wanted to keep it. He hated that.

He shoved harder, further—until his throat seized, stomach writhing like a dying thing. The first heave was dry. Just air and panic. His chest clenched so tight it felt his ribs were trying to shield his heart from the filth trying to escape him.

And then it came up.

Not just the chocolate. Not just dinner. Everything .

His breath. His pride. The last scraps of comfort he’d let himself believe he could have. His eyes sprung tears, his throat tore open, as if the kindness itself was laced with acid, refusing to leave without taking a piece of him too.

His body recoiled from the indescribable taste of bittersweet and sour. But he kept going because a voice, like his own, told him to get it out.

He purged until there was nothing left but bile. Until his shoulders shook from the effort. Until his vision pulsed with black spots and his ears rang. It was disgusting. A wet, helpless kind of crying dripped from his chin as he coughed and retched. Snot had slicked on his upper lip. He didn’t wipe it away. He couldn’t move. Just the sour stench of his own sickness choking the air.

But worse than all of it was the quiet. The absolute, dead silence after it was over.

That’s when the shame hit. 

What had I done? What had I become?

He thought he might actually die here, hunched and pathetic, just a boy trying to vomit up the only bit of kindness he’d been given in weeks.

So he threw it up. All of it. Every last trace. Because maybe if he emptied himself enough, something inside would finally make sense.

Because he didn’t think he deserved it.

Not the chocolate. Not Koyomi. Not warmth.

Not anything.