Archive of Our Own ^beta

Yo didn't mean to leave home— he didn't, not really. If this had been a planned escape, he would've at least thought to take his phone with him, or perhaps an umbrella— at the very least a sweater to ward off the early autumn chill that seeped into his skin as he approached the train station. Instead his fingers shook, numb with cold, white where the blood had retreated from beneath his nails. He forced his hands to steady, operating the ticket kiosk with his knuckle; at this hour, precious few trains were running at all. He picked the one leaving the soonest without bothering to check the destination, and dug his wallet out of his fraying jeans. The machine played a pleasant ding as it spit out the paper.

One ticket to anywhere but here.

The train itself arrived not long after, depositing passengers with whom Yo refused eye contact with as he boarded. If he'd remembered his sweater he'd pull the hood up to hide his face. Oh well.

There weren't enough passengers for the printed seat on the ticket to matter; a magnetic force dispersed them to opposite corners of the train car, everyone landing as far from the others as possible. Yo took his place by the window, rested his forehead against the glass, felt the gentle rocking in his body as the train began to move. Kyoto would fade behind him soon enough; if there were any stars to illuminate the view, he'd watch it go. There weren't, though— or maybe he mistook the breath condensing against the glass for clouds, obscuring the past from his sight. Fine by him either way. He'd come home soon enough. All he asked for was one night to leave behind everything— the whispered arguing, the lonely echoes in the darkened halls. He shook his head; one night to breathe, and then he'd be okay.

Time passed in a haze. Every station had the same shuffle of passengers in, passengers out. Yo watched them through their reflections in the window. None had faces— the glass warped them so they were little more than smudges hovering over bodies backlit by station lights.

He was pretty sure the train was stopped in Chiba, now. Yo still didn't know the station where he was supposed to disembark, but he wasn't sure it mattered. Where he planned on going in the dead of night, well. He'd figure it out then, he supposed. Briefly, he contemplated the merits of staying aboard and riding for as long as he could, but decided against it; already, he was hungry, and besides, what if someone did try and check his ticket once his destination was long gone? Better to avoid trouble altogether.

One final faceless figure slid into the train car, seconds before the doors shut. It lingered just beyond the threshold— to catch its breath, or perhaps scan for a decent seat. The train began to move again, uncaring that the new body was still standing. Unceremoniously, it stumbled forward, falling into the first unoccupied seat.

Yo startled slightly as the figure materialized in his peripheral vision. The smudge transformed into a boy, very real and no longer faceless: big yellow eyes peered at Yo curiously, bright and slightly watery from the wind. The stranger took a second to settle in the seat across from him, then extended a hand in his direction, grinning widely.

"Hope you don't mind me sitting here. I'm Bachira."

It took a second for Yo to remember to move after so long with only the passing countryside keeping him company. He shook Bachira's hand after what he hoped wasn't too rude of a pause.

"Name's Hiori. Yer fine." His name echoed strangely in his ears— detached, foreign, awkward in his voice. He never went anywhere aside from school and soccer practice— with the same faces surrounding him day in and day out, he rarely had cause to speak it out loud.

He'd expected to resume their polite silence after introducing himself, but Bachira kept talking in an easy rhythm, like they were lifelong friends.

"You have a Kansai accent! Which city are you from?" His voice radiated far too much energy for the late hour.

"Oh, um. Kyoto."

"My mom went to visit there recently," he said brightly. "She said it's beautiful and that the people are friendly. Hope I can see it soon."

Yo laughed drily. "S'pose it's alright."

"Where are you heading?"

"I—" he hesitated. "I'm not sure, actually." Yo fished the crumpled train ticket out of his pocket and smoothed it out on the table dividing them. The words SHIBUYA STATION were printed in large, bold letters. "Guess I'm headin' to Shibuya."

Bachira leaned over, slapping his own ticket down next to Yo's. "No way! Me too. I was gonna see a friend, but he cancelled last second."

"Oh, I'm sorry 'bout that."

"It's okay!" Bachira's grin didn't falter, though Yo swore his eyes dimmed just a fraction. "It happens to me a lot. Anyway, I paid for the ticket already, so might as well go have fun."

Bachira's phone buzzed, interrupting their conversation. The contact name flashed Mom with a yellow heart after the name; Yo reached into his own pocket to check his phone out of habit, only to be reminded that he'd left it on his bedside table. His parents were fast asleep now, but they were early risers and expected Yo to be too— they'd find his phone alarm blaring loudly just before sunrise, with no Yo beside it to shut it off. It was a matter of hours now before their freak-out ensued.

The stupidity of his actions was starting to sink in. He was on his way to a huge city, alone, with only the clothes on his back and the meager savings in his wallet. No place to sleep, and no plan but to wander when he got there. He wasn't even sure if the ticket he'd bought was a round trip.

Still, though. Yo couldn't quite find it in himself to care. There was no one he'd want to call, even if he did have his phone— no friends to speak of besides Karasu, who'd been busy ever since he'd been scouted by the JFU— and there was no way in hell he'd tell his parents where he was. He settled back into his seat and returned to watching the landscape pass him by, green fields slowly eroding into the grays of industrialization. As they approached the city, neon signage began to dot the buildings in the distance, shining in garish, artificial hues. They blocked out the stars, determined to instead be their own man-made galaxy.

It was a little sad.

Shibuya Station was closed when they arrived; security staff funneled the passengers to the exit as they disembarked, not allowing them a second to loiter. Someone shoved him forward in their eagerness to leave— Yo collapsed forward, crashing into Bachira's back and knocking the phone out of his hand mid-text. It seemed to fall in slow motion, the inevitability of the crash drawing out the moment and amplifying the volume of the impact on the concrete.

"I'm sorry!" Yo said, diving instictively to grab it. Bachira knelt down at the same time— they moved too quickly, and with a startling jolt, their heads knocked against each other. Yo stifled his grunt of pain, rubbing his forehead as he skimmed the ground for the yellow phone case. The crowd bustled around them— as it turned out, Shibuya was the final stop for the night, and the train quickly spit out its final, harried passengers. An elbow caught the side of his head— as quickly as he could manage, Yo ducked forward and scooped up Bachira's phone, for fear of being trampled. Still, the river of people rushing past was turbulent; staying still in the eddy earned him another jolt of pain as someone tripped over his outstretched hand. Quickly, before another shoe could hit him, Bachira grabbed his wrist and pulled him from the crowd, out of the station, and into the relative safety of the city street.

They faced each other under the orange glow of the street lamp, not quite breathless— Yo's run too many sprints in his life to be winded by such a short run, and Bachira didn't seem to be doing too badly himself— but his heart hammered in his chest regardless. The first thing Yo felt was the new coolness in the air, especially pronounced on his wrist; he didn't know when Bachira let go of his hand, but the autumn air moved to take his place, icy tendrils encircling him in a poor imitation of human tenderness. The Shibuya streets were still reasonably busy for how late it was. To his left, a drunk group of tourists laughed and swayed, hiccuping loudly in their direction before falling over themselves in a fit of giggles. A lone woman behind them tugged her coat tightly around her shoulders as she passed, eyes fixed on the pavement, while an older man yelled angrily into his phone, loud enough that Yo could hear his crisp city accent from down the block. Each person seemed to have their own spotlight: a car headlight, a street lamp, fluorescence leaking from the towering buildings glaring down from above.

Then there was Bachira, standing still before him, short hair whipping wildly around his face to show off the bright underdye, an anchor in the perpetual motion swimming around him. He held out a hand and Yo stared at it curiously, still dizzy from the train ride and the rush of the crowd. Questioningly, he took it in his own, frigid fingers brushing over Bachira's dry palm.

To his credit, Bachira didn't snatch his hand back—he just laughed. "I didn't take you for a flirt, Hiorin," he said, teasing, but not mean. "I wanted my phone back."

"Oh! Of course ya did." He scrambled to hand it over, masking the embarrassment flooding his face behind the movement. A digital advertisement above them flashed red, illuminating the street in the bright hue. Good timing.

Bachira didn't notice— or maybe he was too nice to say if he did— because he busied himself in inspecting his phone for damage. The bumblebee case was scuffed and deep gray streaks of dirt coated the silicon, but he wiped them away with his shirt sleeve. The real damage was revealed when he flipped it over to check the screen.

Deep cracks ran across the surface, scattered like fault lines. Parts of the screen were blacked out entirely, while the half that still worked was covered in bright green and magenta bars. Bachira drew his thumb back from the glass, perhaps out of fear of cutting it. When he pried off the case to check the back, part of the screen chipped off and fell to the ground. It was completely destroyed. Shattered. Unusable.

It was his fault.

Already Yo was tripping over himself to apologize, but Bachira waved him off. He pocketed the ruined phone, hardly paying mind to Yo at all.

"It was an honest mistake," he was saying, "it's not like you threw it on purpose."

"What kinda person would do that?"

A laugh. "Happens to me more than you'd think. Usually it's only the screen protector that cracks, but I guess I got unlucky this time. Can I use your phone to tell my mom what happened though? I don't want her to worry."

"Of course ya can," Yo said, without thinking. He dug his hands into his pockets, retrieving his wallet and the crumpled ticket out before remembering— "Ah, I forgot. I left it at home."

Bachira shrugged, unfazed. "Guess we're going on this adventure the old fashioned way, then. Maybe a conbini will let us use their phone. Nothing else will be open at this hour." He was right— the shops had closed and though people surrounded them, they were all sagged with exhaustion, as though they could fall asleep right there in the road. Bachira wove around them easily, tucking his hands behind his head as he made his way down the sidewalk in search of a convenience store.

Yo watched him go, yellow sweater reflecting the street lights, making him glow in the dark like a firefly. He bobbed up and down a little higher than necessary as he walked, a literal spring in his step, impossibly unbothered by the circumstances. The other city dwellers seemed faded and gray in comparison— faceless as the train passengers, empty as his parents back in his hometown. Hollow as him. They moved around Yo like he was a stone in a river; everyone just seemed to pass him by.

He shivered. Goosebumps dotted his skin. If he wasn't careful, he'd catch a cold.

Bachira turned back at the end of the block, looking at him questioningly. "Hiorin? Aren't you coming?"

Yo blinked.

"It's not safe to wander around alone if you don't have a phone," he continued, "especially in a big city like this. Come on, let's go."

Bachira watched him expectantly, head tilted, eyes yellow as a cat's. Like a planet sucked into a star's gravity, Yo felt his feet move of their own accord.

He followed.

Yo'd never had conbini food; his mother was a meticulous meal planner and calculated his nutritional needs down to the last calorie, hovering over him like a hawk as he downed his plate. At a loss for what to buy, he tried to copy Bachira at first, watching him as he made his way through the aisles easily. He gave up and wandered on his own soon after though— Bachira had the biggest sweet tooth of anyone he'd ever seen.

He picked out a sandwich— a decently balanced choice, with protein, vegetables, and carbs— but paused in front of the array of drinks. Behind the sweating condensation of the glass was more variety than Yo felt he could try in a lifetime: sodas and coffees and energy drinks and juices, all forbidden to him at home. He caught sight of his reflection in the glass, wide eyed and curious, gaze flicking across the labels for something appealing. He could pick anything; he'd started comparing the drinks in his head without thinking, analyzing the best choice. He wasn't fond of carbonation, so that ruled out sodas— not that he'd been allowed any fizzy drinks in years, but from what he remembered they itched going down his throat. He couldn't afford to pick a flavor he didn't like either; it'd be a waste of such a rare opportunity. That didn't even begin to account for if he wanted caffeine at this hour or not. What were the odds he was going to sleep anyway?

It was too much. Without thinking, Yo grabbed the only familiar option— Yakults are good for gut health, his mother always said, though his lips twisted into a grimace as he thought the words— and hurried back to the counter.

He could almost laugh. Even with the endless variety of the conbini before him, even stripped of the consequences of disobedience, he still bent to his parents' expectations like a river reed in a current.

He met Bachira again at the check-out counter, paying for his food as Bachira hung up the store's landline, flashing a grin at the cashier in thanks.

"You're back, Hiorin!" he said, unflinchingly cheerful. "I'll meet you outside, okay?"

He disappeared before Yo could respond, leaving only the faint chiming of the doorbell as proof he'd been there at all.

They settled at a park bench in surprisingly amicable silence— for the first time that night, Bachira seemed to have nothing to say. Despite this, he seemed to constantly be in restless motion, tapping his heel against the pavement as they ate, the sound mixing with the plastic crinkle of their food wrappers. Even the omnipresent noise of the city seemed muted here, though the park's lamps still emitted a faint hum.

"Did ya get to talk to yer mom?" Yo said at last.

"No. I think she's asleep."

"Ah."

"You didn't call your parents, Hiorin." An observation, not a question. Yo wasn't sure if he was supposed to respond.

"No, I didn't." A pause. "They don't know I'm here. S'pose I wanna save 'em the panic for a little longer."

Bachira hummed. "Anyone know you're here, then? You're a long way from home."

"Don't got anyone to tell."

Another moment passed as Bachira sipped his drink— something sweet and caffeinated that Yo couldn't see the name of, as though Bachira somehow needed even more energy— and Yo leaned back on the cold metal bench. It was almost painful against his bare arms, but the fatigue from traveling had finally started to set in. He shut his eyes, resolving to rest for a few minutes, clenching his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering.

Bachira shifted next to him— maybe to throw away their trash. A moment later something warm and faintly honey-scented enveloped him. Yo opened his eyes in surprise.

"You're shivering," Bachira said. His woolen yellow jumper was draped across Yo's shoulders, soft and soothing on his skin. "Wouldn't want you to catch a cold."

"Aren't ya cold, too?" Yo asked, sitting up slightly.

"Nope! My clothes are pretty warm. The sweater was honestly overkill." He rested his head on Yo's shoulder, the ends of his hair spilling over and tickling the nape of Yo's neck. Yo froze; it wasn’t that the touch was unwelcome— no, the gentle weight of Bachira's presence was more comfortable than he could've imagined. It was just shockingly unfamiliar in its warmth and sheer tangibility. Come to think of it, Yo couldn't remember the last time someone had touched him so casually. His parents rarely had a reason to, and the only other person he could say he'd been close to was Karasu and— well. There'd been nothing casual about the way they'd been.

He and Karasu had been messy, frantic, always competing— both on field and in the stolen moments off of it, peeling each other back as though they could reach into each other's cores and find the essence of what they were. Invariably, it was unsatisfying— mediocre, as Karasu always put it. Maybe that's why when he left he never looked back: they'd seen each other for what they were, and they weren't the shining stars they tried to be. No, they'd looked in each other and seen black holes and they'd teetered endlessly on the verge of swallowing each other whole, ready to collapse in a spectacular fashion before they were ripped apart. Perhaps that was best for the both of them. Karasu would make it big in the soccer world, and Yo would go back to floating through his days— barely living before he finally blinked out.

There was nothing grand about how he was now, wrapped up in the sweater of a boy he barely knew, feeling everything he touched far more acutely than he was used to: the freezing cold bench against his back, the rise and fall of his chest, the barest brush of air on his jaw as Bachira breathed against him. No, he wasn't a star right now— there were none to be seen in the city sky, much less found resting on the streets. He wasn't some formless character, nor his parents' prodigy. For now, he was just a boy too far from home. Not quite lost, and definitely not alone.

"Thank ya fer this, Bachira."

"Don't be silly, Hiorin. I needed the company. Something tells me you did too."

Yo didn't know how long they lingered in the park— hours, maybe, because though the buildings blocked the sunrise, the sky began to slowly shift into painted hues of purples, pinks, oranges. When the yellows began to bleed into blue again, Bachira lifted his head at last, stretching an arm up to the point at the rising sun.

"It's like us! Sun yellow and sky blue," he mused, grinning at Yo. "Wish I was a painter like my mom. She'd know how to do this view justice."

Yo straightened his back, twisting around to crack it. "Yer mom's a painter?"

"Yep! Not me, though." Bachira brightened further, if that was possible. "Football's my thing."

Yo stiffened, the last vertebra popping in lieu of his reply. Just his luck that the one person he befriended in the entirety of Japan was a soccer player, too. It was almost like divine punishment for running away— or maybe his parents noticed his absence, and this was some cruel joke they were playing on him. He dismissed the thought (they had no way to know he was in Shibuya, after all, and Yo doubted any familial connection to Chiba), but his displeasure must have shown because Bachira paused mid-stretch.

"Not a fan, then?" Yo wondered if he imagined the disappointment on his face— he turned away too quickly for Yo to know for sure.

"It ain't like that!" he said hurriedly. He tried clumsily for an explanation, to say football wasn't that bad, really, and that it was great that Bachira loved it as much as he clearly did. Words failed him, though— his tongue was suddenly leaden and immobile in his mouth, the apologies caught between his teeth and dying on his lips.

Maybe Yo really did imagine Bachira's dismay; by the time he turned back around, he was already smiling again, taking Yo by the hand and pulling him towards a map at the entrance of the park.

"What should we do today, Hiorin?" he said, skimming the shops dotting the city blocks.

"Nothin' will be open yet. Might as well wander."

They picked a street with no direction in mind, meandering slowly, taking their time to absorb the awakening city. Bachira stopped at the slightest of distractions: a bright weed growing from the cracks in the pavement, a particularly silly shop logo, a street performer tuning her guitar. He treated all of them with the same childish fascination and intrigue, hopping from street to street with the bounce of a bee sampling flowers. Yo trailed behind him, tugging the sleeves of his borrowed sweater so it covered his wrists (he was several centimeters taller than Bachira, and the hem rode up if he raised his arms, inviting the chill onto the pale expanse of his stomach).

Though their pace was slow, Yo realized he didn't mind it; his entire life had always been a maddening loop of one scheduled activity to the next, timings strictly enforced by his parents and set to a tune of skin-crawling encouragement as he cycled through the motions. The days blurred together with nothing to distinguish them from each other. He watched it all happen on repeat, zoning out periodically to find hours, days, even weeks had slipped by with Yo none the wiser. In school he'd get back tests he barely remembered taking, much less studying for, or at practice the coach would debrief him on a game he was sure he'd dreamed instead of lived. Moments of true lucidity became increasingly fleeting— more often, he retreated out of his body, content to let his life play out without him at the helm.

Only Karasu had known about the way he— well, it wasn't living, not really. It was hardly surviving; even animals clawed their way through their existence hungry and wanting. Maybe that was how his only friend moved on without him. Yo remained behind with only a pale imitation of an ego, a half-heartedly borrowed dream to keep him afloat. In the end, Karasu hungered to be the best, and Yo didn't. It was that simple.

Not that it mattered now. With Karasu gone, there was no one else in Yo's life whom he'd bother telling his sob story. He'd pass through the lonely days as he always had until the hollow efforts of his soccer ability— the foundation upon which his family rested— finally collapsed. Perhaps then he'd lose his parents to divorce, and he'd truly be all alone, unloved, living the worst fears of his childhood— or maybe he'd finally find relief in the isolation.

There was only so much repetition he could take before it broke him, it seemed. He'd always imagined the fall would be violent— lashing out, screaming, hitting, cursing. Clearly, the notion was naive; Yo was a coward to his core, and breaking, he found, looked a hell of a lot like running away. The ticket to Shibuya Station crinkled loudly in his pocket with every step, a persistent reminder that this all was temporary. He'd be in Kyoto again tonight, safely ensconced in the prison of his home.

It was funny— Yo wanted to dread his inevitable return, but the thought seemed so far away now. Maybe it was the miles apart that caused it to fade into a distant concern; the future wasn't real yet. What was real was this:

The frigid wind playing with his hair, biting his ears red and raw.

The clear ringing of Bachira's voice as he helped a stray kitten up onto the curb.

The smell of the city, smoke and gasoline, tangling with the inexplicable note of honey following them wherever they went.

If this was what it felt like to live, if only for a day— Yo savored the moment and buried it in the crevices inside his heart, something real to hold up the hollow facade of his soul.

He kept an eye on Bachira, keeping up easily with his longer strides as they wove through the city blocks. This time, they paused at a bakery, pressing their faces to the glass as the owner set up the displays. An incredible variety lined the shelves, more pastries than Yo could name, all up for sale.

"Is that a pineapple tart?" Bachira asked, squishing in closer for a better view. "Let's go in, Hiorin. I haven't had one in years."

Fifteen minutes later saw them seated inside, fingers sticky with sugar as they dug into their newly acquired snacks. Yo let Bachira pick his treat for him— he had far more expertise in the realm of sweets. They sat facing each other on the wooden window-side table, red faced and clammy as the oven-warmed air of the bakery melted the autumn cold from their exposed skin.

"Do you like your éclairs, Hiorin?" Bachira asked him between mouthfuls of his tart.

Yo tilted his head, pondering the taste before he spoke. "The chocolate's a bit bitter, but it makes the cream inside taste sweeter, ya know?" He took another bite.

"I knew it! You don't seem like the sugary type."

"I haven't tried enough to say. My mama doesn't let 'em in our house. Says they'll rot my body from the inside."

Bachira's mouth popped open in a tiny 'o', not unlike the pineapple ring adorning his tart. "My mom always said life's too short to care about that kind of thing."

"It's alright, really. Like ya said, sweets ain't really my thing."

"How can you know what you like if you've barely tried anything?" Without warning, Bachira lifted the forkful of his tart at Yo, practically launching himself across the table as he aimed for his mouth. It caught his lips so suddenly that they parted without warning, the dessert hitting his tongue as the sharp prongs of the fork crashed against his teeth. The first thing he registered was fruity sweetness, a fresh sourness bursting over thick custard and buttery flakes. Bachira retracted his fork, letting Yo cover his mouth with his hand as he chewed, too surprised to really protest at all.

"Well?" Bachira stared at him expectantly, twirling the silverware between his fingers. "What did you think?"

Yo swallowed; the sugary cream lingered on his tongue, though it was undercut with a distinctly metal note.

"I think ya cut my mouth with yer fork, ya dumbass."

Bachira laughed and slid his plate to the center of the table for them to share. Yo caught himself slipping, falling, the laugh blurring with the heavy, sweet, humid air of the bakery and sinking into his limbs. He sucked on the bleeding spot on his lip, letting the sharp taste ground him to the moment. As more pineapple juice hit the cut, it stung, though not unpleasantly. Their forks clinked musically against each other as they fought over the remaining pastries; Yo snatched up the last piece and held it triumphantly in the air before Bachira leaned over and stole it, biting it in one fell swoop.

"Yer so mean," Yo complained, but he was grinning, cheeks aching, laughing along with Bachira until his sides hurt and they were kicked out of the bakery altogether.

The next destination to pull them into its orbit was an arcade— or rather, it was a large dolphin plush hanging in the window of one. Yo was honestly impressed by how Bachira spotted it from across the street; he wove around incoming traffic as he ran towards it, skillfully avoiding the cars but giving Yo a heart attack in the process.

"I wish I was any good at these games, Hiorin," Bachira bemoaned when Yo finally caught up. He eyed the plush hanging front and center amongst the prizes, large and gray and smiling gleefully down at them. "I never got the hang of them."

"Arcades are mostly rigged, ya know," Yo shrugged. "The ones that ain't scams are always crawlin' with people with nothin' better to do."

"This one doesn't look too busy."

"Yer right, but they pick up after school hours. No way to tell right now 'less we try it ourselves." He cracked his knuckles and grinned sharply at Bachira. "I can try and win it for ya if ya want. Consider it a thanks fer the desserts."

They split the cost of the tokens before surveying the available games— Yo was mostly practiced in shooters, so he gravitated towards those, noting the ones that boasted extra prize tickets for earning the top score. He selected a zombie game to warm up. It'd be light work for him, really; this genre was his bread and butter.

Bachira leaned over his shoulder to watch him play, eyes darting between the screen and his hands on the controller. Yo didn't pay him mind, though— as the game loaded up, every distraction around him fell away into muted noise. Even so, he narrated his actions to Bachira, in part out of habit (he was used to doing voice overs for his YouTube channel), and in part to keep Bachira company even as he played the games solo.

"Seems like ya have the option to pick yer weapon in this one— most people pick ones with lots of ammo or that hit real hard, but that slows ya down. Ya gotta pay attention to the weight, too."

"Oh, I see. You're moving pretty fast, Hiorin." The way Bachira's breath tickled his ear was almost distracting. Almost.

"Next mistake is chargin' out to meet the zombies. Better to pick a spot where you can see 'em coming, but they can't hit ya easily. Like—" he paused, tongue poking out of his mouth as he maneuvered the character— "here."

One by one, poor-quality zombie renders stumbled towards his avatar, tripping through the grimy wasteland. They moaned loudly through the speaker before Yo cut them off abruptly with deafening gunshots. He took his time eyeing each target, keeping his movements precise and controlled.

"Last thing," he said, voice low. Another zombie wailed as a bullet caught it in the skull. "Ya can't panic. Every shot ya make has to count."

He fired thrice in rapid succession, each shot landing with deadly accuracy. Bachira had gone completely motionless, chin still resting just in front of Yo's clavicle. The screen darkened as the last zombie fell, and for a second their faces were reflected back at them: Yo's knit with concentration, Bachira's alight with excitement, as though he was the one who'd been playing instead. The camera panned to the closing cutscene and displayed the final scores at last: there, at the top of the leaderboards, the cursor flashed, waiting for Yo to enter his name.

High Score! Congratulations!

Bachira practically leapt into the air. "That's was incredible, Hiorin! You made it look so easy."

Heat rose to his cheeks. "It was nothin'. Grab yer tickets, we've got plenty more to win if ya want yer dolphin."

If he wanted, Yo could have kept playing the same shooters again and again to earn his tickets— it'd probably have been more efficient for both their time and their wallets— but something about the intrigue in Bachira's eyes as he watched Yo play gave him an itch beneath his skin, urging him to try other games as well. He wanted to show off what he could do. To his parents, his video game hobby was a necessary evil; it kept him occupied in the downtime between practices and— more importantly— was something he could do at home, alone, under their watch. His very first console was just that: consolation, an apology (or bribe) to keep him from asking to play with other kids. An island to isolate him.

Having Bachira join him and take interest in the skills he'd accumulated in this lonely hobby was strange, but not unwelcome— enjoyable, even. The other boy's enthusiasm didn't let up for a second, even as hours went by of him hanging over Yo's shoulder, watching him outdo himself again and again.

"You're way too good at this, Hiorin," Bachira said, seating himself on the armrest of Yo's chair. He was tallying up their accumulated tickets for the third time, having lost count on each previous attempt. "Bet your friends all think you're super cool when they see you play."

Yo massaged his hands, working the stiffness from his joints after hours of button-mashing. The all-nighter and flashing lights were starting to catch up to him, and exhaustion loosened his tongue. "Yer funny. I don’t play 'em with friends. Haven't got any."

Bachira raised an eyebrow at him, genuine surprise etched onto his face. "But you're so cool."

"It's what I do instead of hangin' out, silly. Did ya lose count again? Let me do it."

"So your games are like the monster inside you," he said quietly, relinquishing the tickets without protest.

Yo peered at him oddly, like this was a joke he didn't understand. "Come again?"

"The monster's the thing that's always played soccer with me, when no one would." He rubbed a hand over the bridge of his nose, almost like he had a headache. "The thing that's always understood the kind of soccer I wanted to play."

"Ya really care 'bout soccer, huh?" Yo hoped the words didn't come out too bitter. "Can't be too hard to find others to play with ya, can it?"

Bachira smiled at him— he'd never stopped, from the train to the bakery to now, with them seated side by side in the arcade. It'd taken Yo time to decipher the subtleties in his expression, the way those same lips could look inviting or sharp, or how much his eyes closed or nose wrinkled. This one was close-lipped and slightly wilted at the edges, as close to solemn as he might get. "You'd think, wouldn't you?"

"Surely someone's willing to play the way ya like?" When Bachira didn't answer, Yo sighed. "I envy ya a little. You've got somethin' ya love, even if ya love it all by yerself. My games ain't like yer monster. They don't keep me company. They're jus' kinda how I pass my time."

The arcade lights flashed across Bachira's face, turning it red, blue, green, and red again, over and over in an endless loop. Yo picked the tickets back up, thumbing through the paper as he resumed his count.

"Don't you get lonely, then?" Bachira said at last. His bangs hid his eyes so Yo couldn't read them, couldn't measure out how honest he needed to be. "Don't you get so lonely you could die?"

Yo stilled, shoulders curled and legs folded in his seat. He could imagine his phone now, sitting silently on his desk; there wasn't anything waiting for him at home at all. Just his parents with their lofty ambitions, ready to be placed on his shoulders, and the faceless soccer club he was doomed to return to when this dream ended. If he disappeared here tonight, would anyone miss him? How long would it be before his parents parted ways and another striker took his place on the team? How much time would have to pass before he became a memory?

Not much, he thought. Who could really miss him? He hardly missed his own life, after all.

"Ya gotta live to be lonely. Ain't even sure I've managed that." He leaned back in the seat and rested his head on Bachira's hip. "Might learn a thing or two from ya though. Then we can be lonely together."

"I think I'd like that, Hiorin." Bachira reached for the tickets bunched up in Yo's lap, but he swatted his hand away.

"If I let ya count we'll be here all day."

"You keep restarting too!" Bachira protested.

"Only 'cause ya keep distractin' me, ya big buzzing bee."

Bachira poked him sharply on the shoulder, nail piercing through wool.

"Ow! What the hell?"

Another smile, this one with his tongue sticking out cheekily. "Careful, or I'll sting you again."

Yo shoved him off the arm rest, sending paper stubs fluttering to the ground like the season's first snow. Together, they clambered to their knees, reaching out for the tickets, trying to catch them before they scattered and vanished in the breeze.

Even after winning the dolphin, they found they had tokens and tickets to spare. Yo's hands ached from the constant gaming, so they wandered into the more casual sections of the arcade, the ones with lower stakes games of the scammier variety. Yo was less familiar with them— their prize returns were dubious at best, so he'd never bothered to learn— but with time and funds to burn, he and Bachira browsed them leisurely.

"This one's basically a slot machine," Yo mused as they passed by bold letters proclaiming JACKPOT!. "How's it even allowed?"

Bachira gestured towards a punching bag. "This one gives you tickets based on how hard you hit it. Wanna try?"

"Can't hurt."

"You go first."

The bag was small and placed at his eye level— too high for to be fair for the average person— but from the way the seams were fraying, that didn't seem to deter any customers. Everyone loved a chance to show off their strength, he supposed. He squared his shoulders and raised his fists the way he'd seen the avatars in his games do.

"Ya know, I don't think I've ever thrown a punch before, Bachira," he said.

"Wait!" Bachira hurried over, prying open Yo's fingers and placing his thumb on the outside of his fist. "That's so you don't break it. Now give it your best shot!"

Yo must've closed his eyes as he threw the punch, because he nearly missed the bag entirely. That, or the relentless accuracy training he'd undergone for his kicks simply did not apply to his upper body; the machine played a forlorn tune, unimpressed with his effort. He reddened with embarrassment.

Bachira, on the other hand, seemed to find it hysterical. He wiped a tear from his eye as he handed his backpack and new dolphin plush to Yo.

"That was terrible! I've gotta defend our honor, Hiorin."

Bachira rolled his sleeves up to his elbows and tucked his hair behind his ears as he took his place before the punching bag.

"Ya sure you can reach? Might be tall fer ya," Yo teased.

"Watch and learn."

Bachira raised hands up to his face, one fist by his eyes and one pulled back behind his ear, muscles taut. He took a step back and, faster than Yo could blink— he exploded forward, hips rotating as his arm shot out, the impact audible several feet away. The bag swung up and hit the metal machine with a clatter, but they couldn't hear it over the happy jingle as the machine doled out their prize tickets.

"Damn Bachira!" Yo said, cuffing him on the shoulder and depositing the dolphin back in his arms. "Where'd ya learn to hit like that?"

"What can I say?" he shrugged. "Come on, there's one last game I want to try."

The game, as it turned out, was a battered Dance Dance Revolution machine, tucked into the corner of the arcade, hidden alongside equally ancient-looking photo booth. Upbeat music emanated faintly from the speakers, barely audible over the remaining games clamoring for their attention. Bachira hopped easily onto the metal platform and gestured over the railing for Yo to join him.

"This is the only game I remember being any good at," he said as he took Yo's hand and helped him up. "My mom and I played it together, but I was so small back then, I had to hop from step to step."

"It was less like dancin' and more like hopscotch for ya, then?"

"Exactly!" Bachira busied himself in browsing the menus.

"Don't pick somethin' too hard," Yo said. "I'm no good at rhythm games."

"What's the fun in something easy? If we're gonna dance, we should go all out." He bounced on the balls of his feet as he picked the song, excitement shooting through him like electricity. "Alright. Ready, Hiorin?"

"Give me a sec—"

Bachira shoved him forward, taking his own place on the platform next to him. "Too late! It's starting!"

The screen counted down before he was ready; Yo was still trying to find his footing as the first notes sped onto the screen, offering no time to settle into the rhythm.

The beat pounded in his veins through the tinny speakers, demanding to be felt, but it fell on deaf ears and a frantic heart— no matter how he focused, he couldn't quite catch up. He glanced sidelong at Bachira; though the screen flashed Miss! over and over, he didn't let up. If anything, he ramped up the intensity, moving so fast the metal beneath their feet shook violently. His footsteps clanged to the rhythm, body moving of its own accord, happy to dance even if he couldn't quite keep up with the game.

How strange, Yo thought, to be playing with love instead of to win.

He stopped moving, trying not to cringe as several more Miss! text boxes lit up across the screen. Yo breathed in, willing himself to internalize the beat— not the one pulsing out of the speakers, but the one shaking in the soles of his shoes. He studied Bachira's steps, the arrows lighting up beneath his feet, the hem of his shirt bouncing up and flashing his stomach, the barest drop of sweat trickling down the side of his forehead.

He danced.

When the song ended they collapsed onto the railing together, sweaty and exhilarated, warmth radiating from their skin. Yo shed the borrowed sweater, trying to cool off, but he couldn't shake off the current of energy running through him, making the hair on his arms stand on end. It was like there were live wires running through him, replacing his blood altogether. Even as the machine played a melancholy tone— they performed too poorly to even rank last on the leaderboards— Yo found the intoxicating feeling of Bachira's breathless laughs mixing with his to be a far greater prize than any number of tickets.

"I thought you said you've never danced before, Hiorin," Bachira breathed after several minutes. The ends of his hair were plastered to his neck, shiny and damp.

"I haven't. I just followed ya," Yo grinned back. "I didn't know it could be so fun."

Bachira beamed at him; Yo took it in like a reptile in the sun, basking in the warmth, wondering how to commit the feeling to memory. Only the brevity of the moment cast shade on it. Like all things, this soon would end, and as the seconds ticked by, Yo could feel the shadow of the future looming over him, kept at bay only by his radiant company.

He finally looked away from Bachira— from the heat of the blood coloring his cheeks and the corded muscle of his forearms disappearing as he tugged down his sleeves— and caught sight of the photo booth nestled in the corner of the arcade. Its paint was faded and the metal was scratched in places, but bright fluorescent light peeked from inside.

Suddenly the answer became obvious: he knew how to preserve the moment. Bachira seemed to note it at the same time; they linked arms simultaneously and leapt off the metal platform with a conspiratorial giggle. Wordlessly, Yo pulled back the heavy black curtain and they clambered into the tiny booth, long legs tangling in the limited space. They used the last of their tokens to print a pair of photo strips, one for each of them. The camera flashed four times in quick succession: the first caught them both by surprise— they looked up suddenly, wide-eyed as a deer caught in the headlights of oncoming traffic. The second photo was them twisting awkwardly away from the screen, trying to readjust their long legs to fit in the confines of the booth. By the third, they'd managed to attempt a pose, hands thrown up in peace signs while their lips pulled apart in rushed smiles.

The last one, though, captured them as they melted into each other, laughing too hard to remember the camera at all.

The machine spit out the photo strips on shiny, plastic paper, one for each of them. It fluttered gently in the breeze, flapping around his fingers, threatening to float away and take the memory with it.

(Once, when he was a child, he'd watched the summer special of his favorite cartoon, entranced by all the characters running across miles and miles of sand and playing in the ocean. Yo'd asked his mother if they could visit the beach too, but it was too far, and besides, he had to practice— didn't he want to be the best? He'd taken to flipping over the decorative hour glass on the living room coffee table, watching the grains trickle through to count the time. He dropped it one day and watched it shatter on the wood floor— an accident, he told his mother later, when she caught him scrabbling at the mess, hands spilling over with sand and glass and blood. If she angered at him, he didn't remember; in his mind's eye, all he could see was the sand slipping through the gaps in his fingers, just as it did counting time in the hour glass, just as it did when the tide came to claim it from the shore.)

Yo wasted no time folding the photos into quarters and sliding the paper into his wallet, too afraid of losing it to risk holding it in his hands for long.

Bachira hooked his pinky around Yo's as they left the arcade and resumed their casual tour of the city streets. It was for practical reasons, Yo knew— they wouldn't want to get lost, because without their phones it'd be damn near impossible to reunite in the sea of people— but when Bachira started to swing his arm as they walked, he didn't protest. It was fun, even if not strictly necessary.

Too many of Shibuya's attractions revolved around spending money, though, and thus he and Bachira found themselves walking place to place and peering in from the outside. The busiest shops were overrun with vacationing foreigners as well; something about their faces must have marked them as approachable, because several tourists stopped them, asking for directions in rapid, incomprehensible English or slow, broken Japanese. After the fifth one tried to communicate exclusively through Google Translate, Yo insisted on retiring to a less busy street, if only for the chance to walk uninterrupted for a few minutes at a time.

It was never quiet here, not really, but the planted greenery absorbed the brunt of the city noise. Yo could finally hear Bachira speak without straining— they'd begun a game of twenty questions sometime between the third and fourth tourist and continued the back-and-forth now in the relative silence, though they'd lost count of their tally ages ago. Perhaps over twelve hours after meeting was too late to be getting to know one's travel companion (Companion. That was what they were, right? Yo liked the taste of the word, the way it felt close to friend)— but it was better late than not at all.

"Hmm. Yer favorite movie," Yo said. Though this back street was emptier and there was no longer any risk of getting lost, he left his pinkie curled tight around Bachira's, the warmth of the touch leeching into the cold pads of his fingers.

"Easy. It's Crayon Shin-chan 4."

"Isn't that fer children?"

Bachira ruffled his hair with his free hand. "It might be, but it's so funny, it'll make you bald. Now tell me yours," he said, ignoring the puzzled look Yo shot him.

"Ready Player One."

"Oh! The video game one?"

Yo nodded. "I'm sure ya can guess why."

"Doesn't take a genius. Okay, favorite subject in school. I don't study so I don't have one."

"Computer class. Least favorite?"

"Social studies. Too many things to remember." He paused, thinking. "First place you wash in the bath."

"What kinda question is that?"

"What? I wash behind my ears so I don't forget."

"I guess my neck. Lots of nerve endin's there, so the warmth feels nice." To his left, a chime sounded as the door to a smaller store opened. Two customers spilled out and headed down the street away from them, laughing about something between themselves. A pigeon cooed above their heads; Yo watched it hop along after them before deciding suddenly that it'd veered too close and unceremoniously flying away. He dropped Bachira's hand. "It's my turn now, ain't it? Most attractive part of someone."

"I misjudged you, Hiorin," Bachira giggled. "You are a flirt."

"Shut up and answer the question, ya dumbass."

Bachira stepped back as he considered, drifting towards one of the large potted plants in the middle of the bricked street. Green leaves reached out from the base, fresh and vibrant, but faded to yellow and a brittle, dead brown at the tips; it blended into the mulch lining the dirt. Whatever flowers might have sprouted from it would have wilted long ago, retreating when autumn first bared its teeth. The fact didn't deter Bachira— in fact, he seemed more interested in the brightly painted patterns on the ceramic itself, tracing a finger along the design as he mulled over his answer.

The clouds above shifted; rays of light reached down towards them, brightening the street. Sun yellow against sky blue. Yo squinted against the brilliance.

"Your eyes," Bachira said at last, still crouched beside the plant.

"Pardon?" Yo'd forgotten the question.

"Eyes," he said again. "They're the most beautiful part of someone, 'cause that's how you can see their heart the clearest." Bachira looked up from the pot, grinning up at him like he always was, eyes wide open and sparkling. Glowing yellow, bright and brilliant.

"What does my heart look like to ya?" Yo asked without thinking. Immediately, he shook his head, embarrassed. "Never mind— it's a dumb thing to say."

"It's funny. On the train I couldn't see your heart at all," Bachira said plainly. "I thought it was so strange, 'cause everyone's got a heart, y'know." He stood, knees cracking, and stopped just in front of Yo, a few steps too close, staring directly into his eyes. Yo fought the urge to step back or avert his gaze. "I think yours was hiding, or maybe you'd put it away somewhere."

"Was?"

Bachira nodded, and when he spoke, Yo felt the his breath on his lips, warming the skin. "I can almost see it now, Hiorin, but there's something I don't get. You act so gentle and sweet, but your heart's all jagged, like teeth. I think if you let it out and let it have what it wants, you'd find your monster."

Abruptly, he backed away, leaving Yo slightly dumbfounded as the gravity of the moment dissipated. He didn't even have time to ask Now what the hell do ya mean by that before Bachira turned back to the open street, arms out as though embracing it.

"Where to next, Hiorin?" he called. His shadow stretched out behind him, misshapen by the dolphin toy sticking out of his backpack. "I'm hungry again."

"When are ya not," Yo mumbled, jogging slightly and relinking their pinkies to keep from being left behind. He let Bachira lead the way, distracted by the words turning in his head and too aware of the insistent beat of his empty, jagged heart.

At Bachira's insistence, Yo tried a strawberry sandwich from the vending machine where they next stopped. It was delicious, of course, but he didn't know if it was the sweetness of the fruit itself, the taste of something so strictly forbidden in his normal diet, or— he shoved the thought back— the infectious glee in Bachira's eyes as he watched Yo try the first bite.

"What time do you have to head back to the station?" Bachira asked between mouthfuls of strawberry.

"I didn't get a return ticket but sometime 'round this evening," Yo replied. "My mama's probably having a fit since she can't call me. Wouldn't want her to report me missin'."

"Why the sudden trip?"

"Nosy, ain't ya?" Yo shook his head. "I'll tell ya if ya tell me one thing. Ya said ya came to meet a friend, but we've been wanderin' pretty aimlessly 'round Shibuya. Didn't ya have anythin' planned?"

Bachira kicked a pebble on the pavement with the inside of his big toe and watched it skitter to a stop a few meters from them, expertly aimed away from any other pedestrians. "The truth is I don’t know him all that well. We met during a regional soccer match, and he was the only one who was fun to play with."

"What do ya mean?"

"It's like he had this vision of the field, and he was mapping out all the plays in his head," Bachira said, stretching out his arms for emphasis. "Usually when I play no one sees the kind of soccer me and my monster like. They're in all the wrong places for passes, or they can't keep up with my dribbling. Last year I almost got kicked off the team because the coach said my passes make no sense." He said it with a laugh, but kept his eyes on the street.

"I thought it was gonna be the same for this game," Bachira continued, "but halfway through, this guy started anticipating all my shots. We lost, but I didn't mind 'cause it was so fun."

Yo tried— and failed— to imagine a losing game that ended with anything other than vacant platitudes and promises to train harder for his parents. They never angered at him for his losses; in fact, they went out of their way to tell him the things he did well and remind him that We believe in ya, Yocchan!. Yo used to find comfort in the sentiments as a kid, but once he borrowed his mother's phone and found her reading an article titled How to Keep Your Child Motivated During Setbacks: Do's and Don't's. Somehow, their encouragement felt less sincere after that.

He pushed the thought away, though. "So ya came all the way up to Tokyo to meet him?"

"Actually, he offered to come down. My mom and his seemed to get along well during the game. There's just not much to do in Chiba— compared to Shibuya anyway. We were just gonna wander." He sighed. "Something came up though. It happens."

"Ya don't seem all that upset about it," Yo noted, though it wasn't strictly true. Bachira's shoulders sagged under the weight of his backpack, and his steps seemed heavy somehow, worlds away from the energetic bounce he'd grown used to.

"It happens," he repeated. "When it happens to you as much as it does to me you learn not to take it to heart." Yo opened his mouth— to say what, he wasn't sure, because how do you respond to something like that?— but Bachira straightened and kept talking. "Anyway, I just wish I could've played soccer with him again."

The words escape him before he has a chance to consider their meaning. "I can play with ya. Jus' fer a bit."

Bachira stopped in his tracks. "I thought you didn't like soccer."

"I didn't say that."

"Yes, you did," he said— not accusatory, just puzzled. Bachira tilted his head, studying Yo. "And even if you didn't, it's written all over your face when I talk about it."

Yo frowned and crossed his arms. "I play soccer. I'm on the Bambi Osaka Youth team."

"Playing's not the same as liking, Hiorin."

"I'd still play with ya. Not like we can without a ball, though."

Bachira paused, unslinging his backpack and dumping the contents on the sidewalk. Aside from the dolphin plush they'd won at the arcade, precious few things fell out: his wallet, their food wrappers (saved to throw out later), the train ticket and photo strip, and, bizarrely— a soccer ball.

Bachira unceremoniously shoved the rest of the items back into his bag, oblivious to the way Yo stared in wide-eyed confusion. "Now we just have to find somewhere to play," he said simply.

"This is nuts. Yer nuts. Why did ya come to Tokyo with a ball and nothin' else?"

Now it was Bachira's turn to frown. "What else would I bring with me?"

Several answers came to mind— snacks, a change of clothes, a phone charger, to name a few— but Yo snapped his mouth shut and shook his head. Besides, it wasn't like he'd come more prepared. "Never mind. Let's go. I'm sure there's a park 'round here somewhere."

"Okay!" Bachira said brightly, earlier protests forgotten. He hugged the ball close to his chest as he walked, visibly elated. Yo tried to absorb that infectious energy, but a heaviness settled insidiously in his limbs as they searched for the park, leaden and cold and slightly itchy, like a distant urge to run.

It's just soccer with a friend. I offered to play.

They found the park— really, it was a small stretch of green grass, overrun with children playing tag, their parents only half-interested and watching from the sidelines. Only one boy's parents hovered close, cheering him on in the game.

"Go, go, go! Run faster!" They shouted. To Yo, their voices sounded warped, distorted, like he was hearing them from underwater. "You can win, we know it!"

It was his imagination, he knew, but he swore their bodies were wrong, their limbs too long, their teeth too sharp, grinning like sharks. He blinked and rubbed his eyes; the distortion vanished— they were just enthusiastic parents watching their chubby-legged kid chase after the others. A perfectly normal sight, but his heart didn't slow.

Suddenly the ball in Bachira's arms seemed dangerous, a lethal weapon, a ticking time bomb with his name on it. The itching in his skin grew more insistent, coalescing into a thought that'd been looping in the back of his mind for weeks now, distracting him from his matches and crescendoing in the quiet moments he was left alone— like a hammer pounding in his skull, impossible to ignore.

I'm gonna quit soccer.

The very idea was preposterous, of course; quitting soccer would mean the end of Yo's life as he knew it. The end to his family and the loss of the only people who loved him, conditional as it was. Yet he couldn't stop himself from imagining his breaking point, the day he finally stood up and let go of their dream. A carrion bird of an impulse, circling above his undead body, waiting until the day he had enough.

And he had had enough. He was going to quit— he'd worked up the nerve to say as much to his parents, braced himself for the fallout. Except:

He'd raised his fist, knuckles mere centimeters from their bedroom door. Noise spilled out from the space beneath— another argument about him, always about him. The words exchanged were vile; Yo'd never believe his parents could say such things if he hadn't caught them in the act so many times over the years. He lingered there at the top of the landing, his brazen declaration still frozen on his tongue. Yo found he was still eight years old, learning his parents didn't love for the first time— not each other, and certainly not him. Even now he could still recall the rush of air as he fell down the stairs, could still recall the pain of watching his parents stand paralyzed by fear— afraid, not for him, but for the loss of the dream they worked so hard to cultivate.

Before he knew it, he was on a train to God knows where, running away from the choice he'd finally been brave enough to make; the truth was that as much as he despised them, he couldn't bear to lose his parents. Who else would give him their best approximation of love? He'd already scraped out his heart and soul, hollowed himself out to the marrow in their name. They were all he had.

Bachira dropped the ball to the ground in the corner of the green space; Yo flinched at the impact, as though it might explode.

It's just one game. I do this all the time.

Two planted trees, thin and sagging beneath the weight of their own branches, were determined to be the goals. He didn't know if Bachira suggested them or him, but he supposed it didn't matter.

One game and then another.

They faced each other in the middle, pant hems rolled up to his shins to avoid catching in his feet. He couldn't afford an injury, especially not during a silly game like this.

Over and over again for the rest of my life.

"You look like you're going to die, Hiorin," Bachira said, one foot planted on the ball.

"I'm fine. Let's play— you, me, and yer monster." His heart thudded against his rib cage, slow but heavy, the weighty rhythm of a cleaver on a butcher's block. "Don't ya dare hold back, got it?"

Bachira made the first kick, the impact resounding in his carotid, the sound sharp and quick as an execution.

Yo ran to meet it without hesitation.

Yo was damn good at his sport and it showed— he fell into the rhythm of the game with startling ease despite the icy dread seeping into his bones. One-on-one soccer missed out on a lot of the practical skills of the sport— namely, situational awareness, passing, and understanding your role on the field— but it sharpened enough of the others that his parents thought it fit to include in his training schedule regardless. Neither of them were soccer players themselves, but between his father's muscular bulk and his mother's lithe agility, he learned to adapt his technique to a variety of opponents easily enough. Bachira was a real player, though, and Yo wasn't the arrogant type— he hung back defensively after getting the ball, trying to gauge his opponent's skill.

Bachira bounced impatiently on his toes. "Don't stall now, Hiorin," he tutted. "That's no fun."

"Yeah?" Yo said, rolling the ball back and forth beneath the sole of his foot. "Come and take it, then." A shallow taunt, but Bachira took the bait regardless.

"Don't mind if I do."

He dashed in, closing the space between them with a few short strides; Yo threw his arms out to keep the distance, taking advantage of his height. Learned a thing or two from me, did ya? Karasu’s voice hummed in his ear. He fought the urge to wave the thought away, choosing instead to feint right and move left, swooping around Bachira.

Or at least that was the intention— at the last instant, Bachira caught the ball with his toe. It flicked upwards and he caught it smoothly with his chest, wasting no time in caging it in with his body, away from Yo.

"Now the fun really starts," he sang.

"Bit of a magpie, ain't ya? Latchin' on to whatever catches yer eye?" Or a crow.

"What can I say? You're just too interesting."

Bachira twirled with the ball, guiding it between his feet with a laugh, practically dancing with it like it was his true partner in the game and Yo was some onlooker, intruding on their time. He took a step towards them, but Bachira pivoted to the side. He's good, Yo thought. He dribbled the ball like it was a extension of himself, always keeping it within a few touches despite seeming to move freely around the park, like a moon pulling at the tide.

Yo hovered within his orbit, scanning intently for a way to disrupt the easy gravity. He kept his eyes on the movement of Bachira's feet, circling in. At last, he found his opening; he caught the instant where Bachira tapped the ball, the half-second it veered too far from his toes to control.

Gotcha.

He dove in, precise and purposeful, nudging the ball just far enough to break away from Bachira's control and, feeling his body take over the rest, let himself speed past while he took stock of his surroundings once more. Bachira was already on his tail, the tree was at his 11 o'clock, and some of the kids had paused their game of tag to watch them— he'd have to make sure to keep well out of their way. Could he take the shot now, before Bachira confronted him? No— the sapling bowed in his periphery, just outside his range.

"You're pretty good," Bachira said, closing in on his heels.

"Yer not bad yerself." He was little more than a blob in Yo's field of vision, another variable he reflexively tallied while he decided where to move. No longer a person, but an entity, a character— just another obstacle to work around. A body housing a set of skills: good dribbling ability, seemingly endless energy and stamina.

"It's like you're barely there, though." With a burst of speed, Bachira rounded in front of him, grasping at his shirt as they fought for control of the ball. Without thinking, Yo fell back on the tactics that'd been drilled into him so religiously— elbows out, a C-shaped turn on his heel, putting distance between himself and Bachira on instinct. Those warm fingers grazed his collarbone as they held tight to his sleeve, refusing to let him pull back even as every muscle in Yo's body recoiled. Another feint, another arm thrown and he'd get away, he would score—

"It's a little disappointing."

Bachira cut in sharply, a bee revealing its stinger, and stole the ball with ease. The sudden intrusion threw Yo off balance, giving just enough time for Bachira to retreat. He narrowed his eyes, forced to look at his opponent in a new light.

"You've been holdin' back," he accused. He wasn't angry— well, he wasn't angry at Bachira. It was his own fault for underestimating him.

Bachira flicked the ball up and juggled it smoothly onto his knees before letting it drop on the ground. "You play like a machine. Anyone can see your heart's not in it, so why do you bother?"

A ripple of irritation ran through him; he jogged towards Bachira, who wasn't even running towards his goal. "An' what's playin' with yer heart s'posed to look like?"

He reached with his foot to catch the ball from his juggling, but Bachira kicked it in a rainbow flick and wove around Yo to catch it as it landed. "Not look, Hiorin. Feel."

"Yer showin' off."

"You're not trying. It's no fun."

Yo hissed through his teeth as he reached his leg towards Bachira again, but even before moving, he knew he'd miss. He was hovering too far away, the easy closeness they'd built over the day falling apart as the seeping hatred for soccer settled into his veins. Of course he was trying— it was all he knew how to do. It was all he resigned himself to do for the rest of his life.

"Ya don't know anythin' 'bout me," he said quietly, more to himself. "Soccer's all I have. 'Course I care 'bout it." He veered closer now, wedging his shoulder against Bachira as he fought for the ball. He could hear his parents' voices beside him, whispering in his ear. Well, at least we know your marking skills need more work…

"That makes the both of us, Hiorin," Bachira said, hand out to steady himself, fingers curled instinctively around Yo's hem of his shirt— pulling him closer, almost, or maybe they just tangled in the loose fabric. "So why do you run from it?"

"It's 'cause I'm scared, alright?" Yo cried, the words catching as he forced them out in one strangled exhale. He threw his body against Bachira's in earnest, elbow digging into his sternum as his leg caught carelessly, recklessly around the other's in a fit of frustration, carried away by the wave of truth crashing over him. They collided with an impact that surely would get him red-carded in a real game, ball skidding away as they slammed into the ground. He didn't even register the fall until he was facedown on the dirt and spitting out mouthfuls of grass as he tried to suck air back into his lungs.

This is what he always thought breaking down should be like: violent and quick and explosive, nothing like the simmer with which he'd built up the nerve to quit, nor the silence with which he'd vanished from his home. His heart thudded in his throat as he rolled over and assessed his raw elbows, pale skin reddened and peeling under streaks of green grass stains. Yo's hands shook as he assessed them for damage; he hated himself for the surge of panic (and the undercurrent of relief) he felt at the thought that something might have broken, that maybe he'd hurt himself in his impulsivity—

Bachira. Fuck. He wiped his hands on his jeans and looked at Bachira, flat on his back and breathing heavily, staring at the sky with his hair fanned out around him in a halo. Yo crawled over on his knees and shook him roughly.

"Are ya okay?" He grabbed Bachira's arm and helped him sit up, turning over his palms and holding them up to the sunlight to check for injury. "I didn't mean to," he said quickly, reaching for his face to push his bangs out of the way. Already he could see an oozing scrape by his ear— maybe there was a rock, or even Yo's own nails caught him as they fell, he didn't know— but Bachira caught his hand.

"Scared of what?" He said, eyes wide, boring into his own, looking at him, only him. Not with the cool, analytical gaze Karasu had, always evaluating, always prying apart his next target and picking their bones clean— Bachira leveled him with a look that felt like staring into the sun with its intensity, hot and scorching through him, melting him down to his essence.

Could he admit it? How could he not, with his eyes burned open to reveal his his peeling, blistered heart, on display for anyone who cared to look?

"No one will love me without soccer." He swallowed, throat parched. A stray bead of sweat curled down Bachira's cheekbone, leaving a track down dirt-stained skin. Yo focused on that— it was too much to look into his eyes, aglow in radiant yellow even in the late day. "My parents… that's all they care 'bout. All they want is fer me to be the best. An' they don't love me, not really. They love the dreams they have fer me. So even if I hate it, even if I wanna quit more than anythin', soccer's all I've got."

Bachira closed his eyes and tilted his head up towards the sky. "You're all alone without it," he said, shoulders shaking.

Yo's lips tightened. "What's so funny?"

He shook his head, though his chest still shuddered. "It's not funny."

"So why are ya laughin'?"

Bachira turned back to him and swiped the back of his hand over his eyes. "Play one more round with me?" Maybe it was the simplicity of the request; maybe it was the realization that it wasn't sweat tracking down the sides of his face at all, leaking slowly from the corner of his eyes. Yo watched Bachira press the heels of his palms into his eyelids as he sat up properly, drawing his legs up from where they'd been splayed out on the ground before him. The streak of blood by his ear had spread across his cheekbones and dried with the dirt and grass. Yo wondered if he looked any worse for wear.

He could decline— spare himself the heartache of another game. Bachira didn't press him; he only took his silence as courteous refusal and rose to get his ball where it lay several feet away from them, cast in shadow from one of the many buildings surrounding the park. He walked towards it like he was coming home to an empty house, one where the floorboards coughed up dust with each step.

Do you ever feel so lonely you could die? he'd asked Yo.

What had he said? Ya gotta live to be lonely. That was it, wasn't it— he wasn't living, not with his heart sealed away for protection, hidden so well even he'd forgotten where he'd left it. A secret kept safe, even from himself. Was he better off for it? Did it hurt less if he told himself he didn't care? If he pretended not to feel it? The bitter violence that arose within him moments ago said otherwise, that silently simmering fear exploding through the cracks at last. What must it be like to live with your heart on your sleeve, where it may be broken by anyone? Vulnerable. Exposed.

Alive, maybe. Lonely, as Bachira'd said. So lonely you could die.

He stood, brushed the grass from his knees, felt the hot sting of the denim rubbing against his grazed palms. Yo closed his eyes and willed the pain away. If he believed he couldn't feel it, it couldn't hurt him, right? His hands throbbed, flecks of blood rising up no matter how many times he tried to wipe them away.

Yo opened his eyes and ran towards the abandoned ball, catching it between his ankles before Bachira could get to it. The other boy looked up in surprise. With his bangs plastered back and his smile slipping, his eyes looked hollow, resigned (familiar— a mirror to his own in the glassy reflection of the train window as his hometown faded behind him).

"One more round," Yo said, flicking up the ball to pass it to Bachira. "Jus' one."

"You don't have to do that, Hiorin. We can just leave."

"One game," he repeated. He took a deep breath, weighing the words before they left his chest. "The last one before I quit fer good."

Bachira stared at it for a long moment, rocking it back and forth beneath his heel. It caved in slightly beneath the weight. For the first time, Yo noticed his shoes: bright green crocs with bold yellow socks beneath, ill-suited to all the walking they'd been doing— let alone playing soccer. The choice was so Bachira that he couldn't help but capitulate to the smile that tugged at his lips.

"Well, I guess I can't refuse." Bachira passed the ball back to Yo as he spoke, renewed vigor creeping back into his voice. It pulled at Yo— reaching out for him. We can be lonely together.

Yo nodded. "Same goals as before. We'll go 'till one of us calls it quits."

"You got it," he said, smile reigniting on his face. "Last game, huh? Better make it count."

They'd hardly made it back to the centerpoint of the park before the play began, a series of dodges and feints as Yo fought to keep the ball from Bachira. His shoes skidded over the grass as he passed it between his feet— left, right, turn, and back again.

This is it. After this, I'm done.

A faulty tap conceded the ball to Bachira, who dove for it mercilessly; the misstep caught him off guard. Yo didn't play sloppily. Icy control, deeply rational movements, a lifetime of theory and practice behind every touch— that was his style. He took a breath and circled back to intercept Bachira again, falling back on the cold technique he knew couldn't fail him.

One last game. Yet he was playing the same way he always had. Even hundreds of miles away from his parents, he could feel the puppet strings jerking. This is how the best players tackle. This is how they mark and defend and steal. Ya gotta memorize it— not jus' in yer brain, but in yer body, Yocchan. Now again and again until you get it right. His body moved to comply, and he didn't know how to fight it.

Bachira's mouth twisted into the ghost of a frown as he evaded him.

"There it is again. That same boring soccer," he said as he slipped past— close, too close to the sapling. He didn't stall this time; one sharp kick and the ball sailed towards the tree. In a second Bachira will have scored, and it'd be over. They'd pack up the ball and soon after, they would head home, both pretending not to notice the distance that'd sprung up between them.

It was always going to end like this, wasn't it? They'd part ways at the station and disappear from each other's lives for good. It was sheer dumb luck that they'd met at all: Yo could've picked any other day to talk to his parents, gotten on any other train, sat with any other stranger. Chance had brought them together, and chance had a damn twisted sense of humor to make Bachira a soccer player, to have him be in love with the thing Yo detested most about his life. If there was any time to let him go, it was now; Yo wouldn't change (couldn't change, a voice whispered in the back of his mind, though he wasn't sure if it was him or parents speaking the words). The way he played proved it. Didn't it?

Except the game wasn't over— the ball was still in the air. It whistled past, the sound a backdrop to the singular thought ringing out in his head, resounding in his bones.

I don't want this day with you to end.

Soccer player or not, Bachira had given Yo something to want. A day out. The taste of something sweet. The warmth of someone pressed up against him on a cold day. Someone to talk to, someone to play with, someone who didn't see him as Hiori Yo, born soccer prodigy and saw him as just Hiorin. A friend, if one could be called that after such a short time together.

The realization struck him like lightning, jumpstarting his heart so it roared in his ears— hungry, monstrous, an animal learning to bear its teeth. He lunged in front of the ball at the last instant, deflecting it from its course and saving the goal. He didn't wait to see where it landed; already he pushed to his feet, knowing Bachira would be on the second ball at any moment and he couldn't lose it now, not when he'd given himself this chance. Not when he'd found something to play for.

Yo rounded on the ball a half second before Bachira, and this time he fought against the puppet strings, against the techniques instilled into him since he first learned the word soccer. He turned his face to the warmth of Bachira's and grinned sharply, eager to meet him. As his hands flew out for balance they latched onto front of his shirt, feeling the rise and fall of his chest as they panted for air. Bachira stepped back, trying to get a new angle for his attack but Yo—

Yo felt the hitch of Bachira's breath on his neck before his next movement and understood. He followed his rhythm, chasing after Bachira to join him in the dance.

"Ya move to the rhythm of yer breathing," Yo said, collapsing into step— clinging on instead of running away. It was easier to understand the way he moved if Yo kept an eye on the steady heaving of his ribs, a metronome guiding him.

"Oh? Now this is interesting," Bachira sang. "See if you can keep up."

With a sharp inhale, Bachira seized control of the ball from between them and threaded it cleanly between Yo's ankles— an expert nutmeg if Yo had ever seen one. Normally he'd be red with embarrassment, falling victim to a maneuver like that, but he hardly blinked as he spun on his heel, already fighting back control of the ball. Their arms tangled, his fingers catching on the edge of Bachira's sleeve, feeling the fabric stretch towards him.

One step followed another and another as they stamped down the grass, bodies pressing into each other. Yo leaned in for another swipe at the ball, hips falling against Bachira's waist before his leg swept out and seized control. Bachira retaliated with a sidestep; his knee caught Yo's thigh hard enough to bruise.

"That'd earn ya a foul in a real game," Yo winced.

"Lucky for me that it's just us, then, isn't it?"

Yo stuck his foot out in a blatant effort to trip his opponent, but Bachira hopped over it without so much as a blink. "Playing dirty?" he chided with a smile. "That's not nice, Hiorin."

"Lucky it's jus' us," he echoed, panting. "Ain't it?" With one last burst of speed, he dashed forward and slid, tackling the ball out of Bachira's control and well beyond the imaginary boundary closing off their field. A couple of children shrieked and jumped back, though it didn't land anywhere near them. Yo paid them no mind, though— he stayed sprawled across the ground, entranced by a sense of weightlessness that'd overcome him. His chest spasmed and his eyes burned from the sweat running into them; it wasn't until Bachira appeared over him, holding out an arm, did he realize he wasn't dying— he was laughing, laughing so hard he couldn't breathe.

"Give me a sec," he forced out. "I'm dizzy."

Vaguely, he was aware of Bachira kneeling beside him, holding onto his shoulder to steady him. "Take it slow now. Is this your first time laughing or something?"

Yo shoved him. "'Course not, ya dumbass." He was choking, gasping for air. It felt like knives had poked holes in his lungs but the pain was electric, sizzling pleasantly beneath his skin. Bachira joined him, bent at the waist with the force of his giggles, breath hot on Yo's skin. Bachira grasped his hand, trying to steady himself.

"Now that," he grinned, squeezing Yo's fingers, "was a good round, Hiorin."

"Did it really count as a soccer game, though," Yo said as he caught his breath. "Felt more like a scuffle if ya ask me."

"You're just saying that because I nutmegged you."

"No I ain't! It jus' felt different."

Bachira stuck out his tongue. "It's because you had fun, silly. When's the last time you played to enjoy instead of to win?"

"Would ya believe me if I said 'never'?"

"Yes," he said, ignoring the half scowl Yo shot him. "So how'd it feel to play with your heart?"

Yo opened his mouth, then shut it again. He cursed his lips as he considered. "Different. Exciting, I reckon."

Bachira hummed. "I think that's good. You looked happy."

"I don't think anyone's ever said that 'bout me."

"Well, it's true."

Yo withdrew his hand and plucked grass from beside him. "And what about you?"

"What about me?"

"Did ya get what ya wanted from the game?" Are ya a little less lonely? The words rested in the air between them, unspoken.

Bachira stared at him for long moment, opening his palm to catch the flutter of grass before it could drift away. Still smiling, but it was smaller now— softer, honey-sweet and private. Something for the two of them to share.

"Yeah," he said simply, and laid his head on Yo's shoulder to watch the afternoon sun light up the sky.

They stopped at a store and bought the cheapest change of clothes they could find— something kitschy and oversized, a feat for someone as tall as Yo. After asking directions to a public bath, they rinsed the dirt and grime from their skin.

Yo crouched on the stool and lathered soap over the back of his neck and worked his way down.

"It's true!" Bachira said from the faucet beside him. "You do wash your neck first."

Yo glanced at him, watched as he rubbed the soap between his his hands so vigorously that bubbles rose and popped around him. He was sitting easily (shamelessly), splayed out on his stool as he scrubbed behind his ears.

"And ya scrub yer ears first, just like ya said," Yo noted.

"Someone's paying attention!" he sang devilishly.

Yo turned his attention back to his own body, rinsing away the suds with newfound restlessness. "Yer the one lookin' at me. Hurry up, I wanna soak in the bath fer a bit, too. My ankle didn't like that last slide."

Yo rose and stepped into the bath, settling into the water a good ways away from the few other patrons, feeling the heat sink into his bones and envelop him in its sleepy steam. How long had been awake now, he wondered? He'd drifted in and out of consciousness on the train ride here, and there was the brief nap on the park bench so many hours ago, he supposed. The day stretched back into time like a hazy dream, the evidence of its reality tucked into a rental locker, waiting to be retrieved later. For now, the only proof he had was the pleasant soreness in his muscles— courtesy of their trek all over the city. Yo welcomed the ache— it was a small price to pay for the precious hours now folded away into his memories. This day was already better, more magical than any dream he'd ever imagined he could have.

It'll be over soon. The same thought that'd struck him during the game washed over him now, no longer desperate, but solemn, resigned to its truth. He breathed in the steam around him and held the warmth in his chest for as long as he could, keeping it there even when his sternum tightened and the bath around him swayed and tilted. Only when he couldn't stand it any longer, he finally exhaled. No matter what had happened, no matter how miraculous the day, the fact remained: everything must end. His inevitable return home was fast approaching even as he soaked in the moment in a place like this, where time seemed to stop and shrink to nothing at all.

A loud splash next to him jolted him violently out of his meditative stupor. The water bubbled as Bachira popped up beside him, looking all too proud of himself.

"Did you see that, Hiorin?" he exclaimed loudly, spraying water as he threw his hands in the air for emphasis. "Wasn't that the best cannonball ever?"

Yo panicked and shushed him, glancing around frantically. "Are ya insane?" he hissed. "Ya can't jump into a public bath—"

"What the hell is wrong with you two?" A large hand grabbed them both by the shoulders and hoisted them upwards, bringing them face-to-face with one of the patrons Yo noticed on their way in. He'd brought his own towels and bathing supplies arranged meticulously in a portable caddy. Bachira had even pointed out his ridiculously styled hair and sour expression in the changing room (which he'd clearly overheard— his mouth had curled in annoyance even as he pretended to ignore them).

There wasn't any chance that he'd overlook this too, though. Yo scrambled for his towel to cover himself while the stranger screamed at them.

"Haven't you assholes ever been to a public bath before?" he was saying. "I come at this time so my sanctuary won't be ruined by little shits like you—"

Bachira clapped his hands together in apology. "Sorry mister! Didn't mean to disturb your royal soak."

Yo tried to press the spare towel into Bachira's hands, but he paid him no mind, seemingly unbothered by the way he was standing butt-naked and being scolded like a toddler in front of everyone— by another patron, no less. How he didn't want to shrivel and die from the embarrassment was beyond Yo.

He grabbed Bachira's wrist and ducked his head in apology. "We were jus' leavin'," he said quickly, averting his eyes from Bachira only to land on the stranger's absurdly chiseled thighs. Is everyone here somewhere kinda athlete? He turned his head again and made eye contact with a wrinkled elderly man gaping at them openly. Maybe not.

"Wait," the stranger said, stopping Yo in his tracks. "I know you. Some chump from the Bambi Osaka team."

Yo paused and finally looked— really looked— at him, shocked to find he recognized his face as well. All at once, the embarrassment faded into the background. "Ah, I know who ya are. Barou Shouei. Ya make quite the stir in the regional matches."

"That's right! Now I remember," Bachira said. "He's a bit of a drama queen during the games though." He deepened his voice and crossed his arms over his bare chest. "Bow down to your king. Don't get in the way, peasants."

Yo covered his mouth as he giggled. "Yer so right— ya know it makes sense he's such a nutcase 'bout order outside of games too."

"Shut up, you lowly—"

Someone— one of the bathhouse staff— tapped Barou on the shoulder, breaking them out of their squabble.

"Excuse me, sir," he said, polite words barely concealing his sharp tone. He glared daggers at the three of them. "I'm afraid I need to ask you all to leave." Barou opened his mouth to argue, but the attendant cut in before he could speak. "Immediately."

Yo yanked hard on Bachira's arm, dragging him towards the changing room before Barou could redirect his fury to them once more.

The sun had started its descent and was all but lost behind Shibuya's towering buildings, washing the pavement in yellow-orange where the rays managed to slip though the gaps. Between the bath and the long hours awake, Yo's mind had started to feel sodden and heavy. He took a sip of an energy drink Bachira had bought for them; it was sort of gross— too sweet, and the carbonation itched his throat— but they were both struggling to keep their eyes open as they hovered near the train station. He pretended not to see the way it loomed in corner of his vision like a ghost; they didn't want to wander too far now, not when they'd both resolved to leave before it got too late in the evening. A stray beam of light caught the rim of the can and reflected back at him, painfully bright, but Yo didn't close his eyes.

"You know," Bachira said as they passed by a theater. Posters for a showing of their Studio Ghibli fest were plastered outside of it; a peeling print of My Neighbor Totoro boasted today's date on it above Totoro's smiling head. "There's one thing I really wanted to do, coming here."

Yo swung their arms as they walked, pinkies still linked together to keep from getting lost. "Yer tellin' me now, when the day's almost over?"

"You're so mean to me, Hiorin," Bachira pouted. "I've been keeping it a surprise."

"I don't think ya can keep a secret to save yer life, Bachira."

He pretended not to hear, electing instead to snatch the can and down the remainder of their drink, grinning widely over the metal lip. "You trust me, don't you?"

"How can I not, after the day we've had?"

"Good." Without warning, Bachira tugged sharply on his hand, leading him into a nearby building. The glass door swung shut behind them, muting the city noise so suddenly it disoriented him.

"Where are we goin'?" Yo asked, trying to slow down in protest, but Bachira overpowered him in his excitement, pulling hard enough that Yo's shoulder popped. The lobby around them seemed filled with adults in neatly pressed suits getting ready to leave after a day at work. They stuck out sorely in their cheap tourist garb. "Should we be here, Bachira?"

"Don't worry so much, Hiorin." He pressed the now-empty energy drink into his hand. "You find a place to throw this away, and I'll be right back."

"Wait—" Yo called, but he vanished across the room without a glance back.

Yo scanned around him for a waste bin, taking in the polished sheen of, well, everything. Fancy shoes clicked across the tile floor, symbols of shiny people at their shiny jobs. His parents loathed the idea of a life like this, encased in plastic and permanently trapped behind a desk where their limbs rotted from disuse— a life of stagnation as they faded out of their glory days as athletes.

Was this what awaited him if he quit soccer? He'd toyed with the idea of computer programming or maybe IT if he summoned the courage to choose for himself, but now he found himself faltering. A hot puff of air from the heater brushed against his neck, artificial and dry. The room around him was so foreign, it was hard to imagine a future in a place like this— an entire life indoors, where he wasted away out of sight from the sun.

A painting on the wall drew his attention— an intricate frame encased an abstract, flowy rainbow, making it stand out against the stark white walls. Bright colors splashed across the canvas, the paint washing over it like waves. The hues blurred together at the edges where they met so it was never clear where one color faded into another; Yo stepped back and took the hazy, dream-like cloud in. Soft spotlights illuminated it from the bottom. A signature was scribbled across the bottom in white.

Bachira Yuu.

As if drawn by his observations, Bachira bounded towards him. He'd tied the loose fabric of his shirt into a knot with a hair tie, and it bounced up and down as he ran. "Hiorin! Let's go!" he called, ignoring the side eyes from the employees around him.

He clapped his hands over Yo's eyes and dragged him somewhere to the side, leaving Yo bent awkwardly to accommodate his height. He stumbled over their feet and threw his hands out to catch himself, catching them hard against a wall.

"Damn," he swore, biting his lip and shaking off the pain. Bachira's hands slipped from over his face and Yo caught a glimpse of the bright lobby before Bachira was standing on tip-toe in front of him again, hastily hiding his view.

"Don't look!"

"Alright, alright, I'll close my eyes if it makes ya feel better. Take my hand though— and don't let me run into anyone."

He felt Bachira's fingers spread apart, like he was checking to see if his eyes were really closed. "Promise?"

"Yes, ya dumbass," Yo sighed. "Let's go now. Yer makin' a scene."

Bachira peeled his hands back slowly and took Yo's hands in his, warm and sweaty against his own cool and dry skin. He must have been walking backwards, glancing over his shoulder periodically to make sure he was guiding Yo in the right direction. Yo was tempted to open his eyes a fraction to check, but didn't want to disrupt the trust they were holding onto, pressed tight in the space between their palms.

They paused for a second and Yo heard the soft chime of a lift; as they stepped inside, Bachira jabbed at a button with his elbow.

"Are ya gonna tell me where we're goin'?" Yo asked.

"You'll see in a second," he hummed in response. He was bouncing on his toes as the lift rose, shaking Yo's arms in the process.

He changed the subject. "Did yer mom make that painting? Out in the lobby?"

"Yeah!" His voice audibly brightened. "Her art's really taking off lately. She's sold a few of the other pieces in this building too."

"That's amazing." A beat. "Ya really love her, huh."

"She gets me in a way I didn't think anyone else would," Bachira said simply. The door dinged open before he could elaborate. "Careful stepping out now, Hiorin."

This room was warmer and quieter than the lobby. Yo's shoes sank into plush carpet as they stepped. They moved more freely now— there must not have been anyone around to run into.

"Almost there," Bachira said under his breath, still walking backwards. Yo shortened his strides after bumping his toes against Bachira's crocs for the third time. A click of metal as they passed through another door and finally, Bachira dropped his hands.

"You can open your eyes now."

Yo opened them but— he could hardly see a thing. The room was flooded with brilliant light that washed out his vision, too overwhelming for him to take in the sight. He rubbed his eyes, trying to bring it into focus. The scene developed before him slowly, picturesque as a Polaroid.

First: Bachira in front of him, smiling so brightly he alone could be lighting up the room. His shirt had slipped off his shoulder and his hair brushed over the bare skin, black and yellow and bouncy and soft. Shining eyes reflected back at him, searching his face for a reaction, and Yo caught sight of himself in them, his own shocked expression staring back from pools of gold.

Behind him, an empty conference room swam into view. The whitewashed walls were dyed orange in the setting sun; it was empty except for them, with all the chairs tucked neatly beneath the desk. Yo looked at Bachira, opened his mouth to ask Where are we?. As if in slow motion, Bachira touched his jaw and turned it gently to his left. His breath hitched in his throat at the sight.

Windows spanned the length of the wall, a marvel of glass stretching from floor to ceiling. Outside, the city unfolded beneath them; Yo stepped closer to the wall, expecting to see a mess of criss-crossing roads and skyscrapers and cars crawling below like ants. He couldn't, though— as the sun dipped lower into the sky, its rays caught the light of all the glass and metal below and reflected back at him in bursts, like stars dotting the cityscape. They towered above the rest of the buildings, hovering in the quiet of their own pocket of space, observing the unfolding of a galaxy. It was dizzying, how high above the city they were; Yo spent his life watching himself from behind like a movie but this— this must be the viewpoint of a god.

In the quiet, he realized he'd forgotten to breathe. Bachira stood equally still beside him, devoid of the electric, restless energy always running through him, if only for a moment.

Yo didn't know how long they watched the sun set, how long they remained entranced by the way the city seemed to be cleansed by burning firelight. He just felt Bachira's hands hanging loosely by his side, close enough that when he began to fidget again, their knuckles brushed.

"Don't you feel small?" Bachira said softly. "Like you'll float away in this sea of people?"

"Yeah," Yo whispered back. "I've never seen so many in one place."

"It's lonely in its own way." His eyes remained fixed on the sky, watching the yellow-orange slowly leech into molten red. "Even if you find someone who gets you, no one stops. Everyone's got their own lives to live."

Yo looked away from the wide window. There it was again— the same sad smile from the arcade, half hidden in shadow. "Bachira…" Yo said, but he was speaking again.

"Don't you get scared? Even if you find someone, you're gonna lose them again."

Below, the streets had started to come back into view, no longer burned away by the blinding sun. Strangers shuffled over the sidewalk, so tiny they were little more than smudges drifting through. Countless people, lining the streets, entire lives they could only catch the slightest snippet of, bound to them by nothing besides this shared instance of existing at the same time, the same place.

"It's terrifyin'," Yo admitted. He looped his pinky around Bachira's. "Makes ya realize how temporary everythin' is."

"How do you live, then? Knowing it'll all disappear, and you'll be alone again?"

"I…" his voice trailed off. He'd floated through his life, so used to isolation that'd he'd stopped registering that it hurt. He barely knew his parents and they barely knew him; he dreaded the return home, the sentencing to a life under their roof. He also knew Karasu did not miss him, nor did he miss Yo's borrowed, half-baked ego— and truth be told, Yo couldn't separate him from the thorny resentment that clouded his soccer career. He wasn't close to any other teammates, had no real friends at school. There was no one whose absence he'd ever think to mourn, and he'd given up seeking another long ago.

Except.

Bachira had wormed his way into the solitary cocoon of his heart and nestled in close, shone light on the frozen expanse of his soul and let it start to thaw. He didn't know what was more surprising— to find he still existed beneath the ice, or to find that when he started to crawl out, someone was there to meet him with a smile and a warmth he'd never felt. When would he ever find something like this again? The day had passed in a dream, a life he wasn't sure he could dare to imagine: one of joy instead of dread, one with choice instead of passivity, and— perhaps most improbably of all— one with someone beside him to witness it, someone who could savor the tender memories.

"I don't know. I've never found someone like ya, y'know. Someone I'm scared to lose."

Bachira finally faced him, turning away from the window overlooking the city. Traces of gold lit up the side of his face; his eyes were squeezed shut, as if the time wouldn't pass if he didn't open his eyes to watch it go. "I don't want this to end."

"Me neither," Yo said quietly. He reached over tentatively and smoothed Bachira's bangs out of his face; he wanted to look at him, to memorize every detail of the moment before it could slip away. "Bachira?"

"Yeah?" His eyes blinked open. Dust had caught on the lashes— they were close, so close he could count the specks scattered across, feel Bachira's soft breathing on his wrist.

"I'm glad I met ya." It sounded too simple, the words too plain to convey the weight of the contentment filling his heart and lungs, but there wasn't any other way to say them. The truth was that being around him was easy, uncomplicated.

Bachira fiddled with the hem of Yo's shirt, fingers twisting and weaving around the fabric and tugging apart the flimsy seams. "Do you mean it?"

Yo tilted Bachira's face up to look at him. A muscle strained in his jaw— Yo felt it pull taut beneath the pads of his fingers.

"I mean it. Of an entire city of people comin' an' goin', I'm glad I found ya." He took a breath. "I'm happy."

As the last rays of the sun retreated behind the Tokyo skyline, Yo buried his fingers in the soothing silk of Bachira's hair and pulled him close. Their lips met in a burst of sugar-sweetness, Bachira's breath on his mouth soft and soothing as warm honey. Yo melted into the touch, feeling the corners of of Bachira's mouth turn up in a smile as they pressed together, their bodies drawing closer and closer as he dissolved within the sensation.

It wasn't desperate, not in the way he thought it might be, like reaching out for something he couldn't have. Kissing Bachira was tender, safe, with the undercurrent of satisfaction tapping insistently through his heart. They fit together like they were meant to— a transient, perfect moment of the stars aligning. This, Yo thought, had to be what it felt like to come home.

Bachira pulled away first. His fingers still clutched tight at Yo's shirt. He didn't smile. The sun had disappeared and the moon had yet to rise, but the city was still wide awake— neon signage spilled their colors through the window and leaked across the floor. They were still for a while, save for the rise and fall of their chests.

Bachira dropped his hands at last, letting the fabric fall free. "Hiorin," he whispered. "I think it's time to go."

Yo nodded. There was nothing more to say.

They sat across each other on the train ride home. The overhead lighting was too bright for the evening journey and it illuminated them in unflattering ways, washing their skin in sickly, jaundiced yellow. Exhaustion had caught up to them in earnest by now; they didn't speak to each other. The two of them just held hands across the table, Bachira fiddling with his thumbs like a fidget toy.

Each time they paused at a station, Yo's heart beat a little faster, a step-wise acceleration anticipating the end. He leaned back in his seat and fought to keep his eyes open for just a while longer.

"Are you gonna quit soccer?" Bachira asked suddenly. He had his head down on the table and was blinking up at Yo blearily, sleep clouding his gaze and slowing his words.

That was the question, wasn't it? As the train sped across the tracks to deliver him home, it weighed at him heavily.

When he stepped through the front door and looked his parents in the eyes, would he still have the courage to choose what he wanted? He could already imagine the way they must be tearing themselves apart with worry, the way the bones of the house would be rattling with their screaming. Could he tell them to hell with their dreams, that he wanted to quit, or would he cave at the first hateful glare between his parents? Could he bear to rip his family apart with his own two hands?

More importantly, though: did he want to? The soccer he'd grown up with— that he'd grown to resent— was cold, driven by fear but stunted by apathy. Every hour spent enduring his parents' sickening encouragement had been a plea. Look at me. Love me. A desperate child begging those who had no love to give.

But then there was Bachira's soccer— rough and messy and against all the careful rules Yo had worked years to master. It wasn't a game; it was a dance between the two of them, and the rhythm in his blood had thawed his heart so it might start to beat again. It was a break in the storm. Sun yellow over his cold sky blue.

"I don't know," Yo said with a sigh.

The train rocked them soothingly.

"It's up to you to decide what you want," Bachira said, shifting in his seat. "Just don't forget your heart again."

Yo smiled at that. "Can ya see it any better now?"

"Mm-hmm. It's peeking out, slowly but surely."

"Maybe I'm savin' it for ya."

Bachira laughed and the seeping tension between them evaporated. If only for a second, they faced each other instead of the end, filling the space between them with idle chatter, rushed promises, skirting around goodbyes.

"Do ya have class tomorrow?"

"Yeah, but I think I might sleep instead. Mom will tell them I'm sick."

"Tell her I loved her painting."

A wide smile. "I will! And I'll watch that movie you liked, too."

Yo rolled his eyes. "I'll watch Crayon Shin-chan too, I guess."

"It has to be the fourth one. That's the best one."

"If ya insist." And on and on.

"Bachira," Yo started. The speakers above announced in cool monotone: The next stop is Chiba. Please remain seated until the train is fully stopped. They both pretended not to hear the sound.

"Yeah?"

"Will I see ya again?"

Air whistled through an open window. Someone in their compartment must have found it stuffy.

Bachira didn't answer. Yo backtracked quickly, the tips of his ears burning hot. "Never mind. It was dumb of me to ask."

"Can I see the photos we took?"

"Ya have yer own copy, though."

"Just let me see yours for a second."

Questioningly, Yo opened his wallet and handed over the strip. The two of them smiled up at him through the plastic sheen. Bachira retrieved a pen from his bag and uncapped it with his teeth, scribbling quickly on the back before sliding the pictures back over to Yo.

The train was slowing; just outside, the station loomed, drawing closer with every passing second. Above them, the speakers dinged once more. Ladies and gentlemen, we are now arriving in Chiba.

Bachira stood and reached for his bag while Yo watched him helplessly, the photos clutched tight in his fist like he was a child again, grasping helplessly at falling grains of sand while the broken hourglass shredded his skin. The forward inertia of the train made him sick— or maybe it was all the junk food they'd eaten today, though he'd give anything for just another hour to share cheap conbini food once more— and he hugged his arms to his chest to keep them from shaking. As the doors sighed open and cool air rushed in, Yo forced his leaden tongue to move.

"Bachira." The other boy— and they really were just boys, lost and scared and lonely before finding comfort in each other— paused, turning back to him. Yo never wanted to forget the way he looked now, still in his silly green crocs and with the stuffed dolphin sticking out behind him. Bright in the train lights, silhouetted against the open doors and the dim station, head tilted questioningly to the side as he looked at Yo for the last time.

He turned the photo strip over in his hands, catching sight of the phone number scrawled across the back. "I'm glad ya found me."

Bachira rose up on his toes, pressed a kiss to Yo's forehead, and smiled. "Oh, Hiorin. I'm glad you stayed."