Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Satomi jolts awake.

His heart hammers against his ribs, breath stuttering in short, sharp bursts. He claws for the nearest memory through a fog of disorientation.

What had he been doing? What—

And then it hits him.

A crumpled car. A white van. The barrier bent like paper. The crowd, filming and gasping with fake concern. The policemen chatting casually: a man pulled out of the wreckage in critical condition—just another day at work.

Oh god. He had to go. He had to find Kyouji and—

“Satomi-kun? Oi, Satomi-kun!” a voice cuts through the fog, bright and jarring.

He opens his eyes.

He’s sitting. Strange. But not as strange as everything else.

The chair is metal, sleek, shaped like a wine glass. The base is fused to the floor, which is humming faintly, as if alive. Around him, panels flash and click with a chaotic array of levers, dials, gauges and buttons. Viewing windows stretch to the ceiling—a panoramic view of infinite black. Like he’s wandered onto the set of a vintage sci-fi show.

“Hey, Satomi-kuuuun!” the voice needles him again, sing-song and chirpy.

Satomi finally registers two figures behind the consoles, in their own retro swivel chairs.

One is tall and stiff, dressed in a sharp, neatly creased gray uniform. He’s sitting ramrod straight, expression serious. Satomi blinks. He’s older—and grimmer—but it’s unmistakably Wada.

The other is swiveling in their chair and waving with a grin. Short, spiky hair; cargo pants and combat boots; disheveled lab coat over a t-shirt that reads: TIME FLIES WHEN YOU’RE HAVING PUN.

“Nakagawa-san…kun?” Satomi croaks.

His old singing counterpart beams. “Don’t strain yourself, Satomi-kun. It’s all good.”

Satomi blinks. “Where am I? Wait, Kyouji—the car—”

“Those are memories from a different reality, sempai,” Wada tells him, voice flat.

Satomi reels. “What?” His hands tighten on the edge of his seat. “That’s not—am I dreaming?”

“Aren’t we all, in some way?” Nakagawa replies with a spin of their chair.

Wada sighs, fed up. “You’re here because we need you, Satomi-sempai,” he explains. “To save the future.”

At Satomi’s blank face he continues, more vehement. “A dark force wants to consume it. It’s attached itself to Narita Kyouji. Only you can stop it.”

Satomi shakes his head, laughing dryly. Dark force, save the future—he hadn’t been into that genre, even as a kid.

“That’s…that’s insane. And your plot setup doesn’t even make sense. One of his kyoudai could—”

“Satomi-sempai,” Wada cuts in sharply. “Do you want to save Narita Kyouji?”

Crumpled, twisted car. Driver in critical condition. The images flare, sharp and uninvited.

Both of them are looking at him now. No jokes. No smiles.

The smell of burning rubber lingers in his nose. Satomi bites his lip and fiddles with the buttons on his school uniform. He sighs. “…What exactly are you asking me to do?”

“You just have to agree.” Nakagawa replies, gently. “To try.”

“But…try how?” Satomi responds, frustrated. “What exactly am I supposed to—” 

“C’mon Satomi-kun, you always paid attention during Japanese literature,” Nakagawa says with a grin. “We can’t tell you any more, or it wouldn’t be a quest.”

“We’re in position,” Wada interrupts.

“Now or never Satomi-kun! Just remember, you’ll have no memory of this once you’re in there—dimensional integrity, laws of space-time, blah, blah—you get it.” Nakagawa giggles. “Or, don’t remember, I guess.”

Wada turns to him, gaze flat and expressionless. “Just be yourself, Satomi-sempai,” he says, pitch low. “That’s all you need to do.”

The control room erupts—lights strobing, panels beeping insistently. Satomi looks up—is that a disco ball? A familiar tune plays underneath the cacophony. He catches the first few words—I could not look back—and grief tugs hard at his chest. Kyouji.

Then the floor falls away, and the world goes bright white.

Chapter Text

The world snaps back into frame—too bright, oversaturated colors humming at the edges. Satomi lurches forward, nearly falling off the couch.

A voice calls from just behind. “You alright there?” Kyouji comes into view, sitting down next to him. “That summer heat put you right to sleep,” he chuckles.

Kyouji looks tired, face more lined than Satomi remembers, edges softer. But his eyes are the same—sharp, captivating, and dangerous.

Kyouji uncaps a blue plastic bottle with a loud click. The scent hits first—chemical sweet, notes of coconut. Oily sunscreen glistens in his palm as he reaches out. Kyouji’s hand lands on his shoulder for a heartbeat before Satomi registers the touch—rubbing circles, warm, slick, too familiar.

Satomi leaps back, heart hammering, face flushed.

“What—what are you doing?”

Kyouji tilts his chin toward him. “You’re already turning pink from this afternoon. Come on, you know it’s good for you.”

Satomi looks down—and freezes. Bare skin. A faint line of hair leading down to a pair of swim shorts. Hands too big. Legs too long. Like someone else’s body.

Kyouji reaches out again—palms gleaming pale with lotion. Satomi jerks, shoves Kyouji away. “I’ll do it myself,” he snaps.

Kyouji raises both hands. “Okay, okay.” He holds them out to Satomi, palms up.

Satomi cautiously swipes the sunscreen off with the backs of his fingers.

Kyouji laughs, eyes crinkling. “You’re cute today, Satomi-kun.”

The room comes into focus—a compact living room with a kitchenette. Grey couch, laminate coffee table, generic framed nature shots on the wall. The beige curtains breathe in and out with the breeze, billowing softly. The smell of salt floats in on an inhale, along with the rush of waves. Behind them, a half-open door leads to a bedroom.

His chest tightens, stomach lurching. What is he doing at a strange seaside hotel with Kyouji of all people?

Nothing around him gives him an answer.

Kyouji brushes a hand through Satomi’s hair. “You okay?”

Satomi forces himself to unfreeze. “Just dizzy,” he answers. “The sun, I guess.”

Kyouji takes him by the wrists, helping him to his feet. “Go take a nap.”

He follows Satomi into the bedroom. Two half-unpacked suitcases. Reading glasses and a Murakami novel he’s never heard of on one nightstand, phone and a glass of water on the other.

Kyouji rummages through the dresser. He hands Satomi underwear and a pair of pajamas.

Satomi waits for him to leave. Kyouji doesn’t. At Satomi’s glare, he huffs, amused, and finally turns around.

“You really are cute today.”

Satomi dresses and slides under the covers, pulling them up to his chin.

Kyouji sits on the side of the bed and ruffles his hair. “Get some rest. I’ll wake you for dinner. Takeout?”

Satomi nods—mouth clamped shut, heart thudding against his ribs.

“Sounds good. Sleep tight.”

Satomi waits for the door to click shut, then reaches for the phone on the nightstand. The wallpaper flashes up—him with Masami and his parents. He exhales. The phone unlocks at his touch.

He opens the calendar: July 7, 2029. His breath catches. He stares at himself, disbelieving. His hands are wrong—veins too visible, bones too large. Limbs stretching too far; his knees creak like they remember ten missing winters. His weight feels unnatural—a stranger’s body.

Ten years—gone. His insides twist, a sour taste climbing up his throat.

Amnesia? Is it possible to just lose ten years?

His fingers trembling, he opens Maps. The blue dot blinks: a seaside town in Wakayama—not even two hours from Osaka.

Next: LINE. Kyouji’s name is at the top. Pick you up at 10. Sent at 8:49 this morning. He scrolls back—mundane banter, stickers, the odd photo (a plate of homemade stir-fry, a sleepy stray cat curled on a windowsill). Then a month earlier: How about Ise? We can have yakiniku.

The sunscreen sticks to the sheets as Satomi turns, thinking. Every month, the same pattern. An invitation—an overnight trip, somewhere an hour or two from Osaka. The days in between sprinkled with everyday conversation, but no mention of meeting.

Unease trickles down his neck. Did he live somewhere else? Still, he’d visit Osaka; his family was there. But Kyouji never met him in the city.

He opens his email—work account. Signature: Osaka Legal Affairs Bureau. Dozens of dull emails. Then—an unnamed folder, almost hidden. One message inside. Your Planned Transfer to Sapporo. Dated last week.

His skin prickles. Your new posting will start August 6^th. A month away.  

A knock at the door jolts him. “I picked up ramen. Come eat while it’s hot.”

Satomi steps out. He reexamines his surroundings.

A standard one-bedroom hotel suite. The kind they apparently stayed in every month. Away from anyone who knew them—never the same place twice.

A persistent clinking sounds from the silverware drawer. Something rustles behind him—no, in the walls. He hears drips—a thick, syncopated sound—too deliberate to be a leak. Like something not quite alive trying to mimic a heartbeat.

He checks to see if Kyouji hears it. But Kyouji just smiles and unpacks their food.

The hush around them feels like a held breath—something is watching, listening.

“Let’s eat outside,” Satomi says.

They sit at a small picnic table in the hotel’s back garden. Kyouji unpacks noodles and sides, pours the broth, passes Satomi a pair of chopsticks.

“Thank you for the meal,” Satomi says.

They have their meal in silence. The broth is rich and savory—the pork melts in his mouth. Satomi eats hungrily; when Kyouji adds a second helping of noodles to his bowl, he doesn’t protest.

Satomi’s eyes follow Kyouji as he steps away to toss the trash, then turn toward the ocean.

The rhythmic shushing of waves carries through the air. Cicadas chirp loudly in the trees. Underneath, an eerie hum from their hotel room.

“Let’s go walk on the beach,” he tells Kyouji. “It’s too nice to go back in yet.”

“A sunset walk on the beach,” Kyouji teases. “You’re romantic today.”

He offers Satomi his arm.

The beach is nearly empty at sunset.

As they walk, Satomi examines Kyouji’s face. Lingers over the soft wrinkles on his forehead and the corners of his eyes. Studies the gray streaked throughout his hair. Kyouji’s arresting beauty has settled into something more solid, dignified.

Age looks good on you, Satomi thinks.

The breeze picks up. Kyouji wraps an arm around Satomi’s back, enclosing him in warmth and a familiar scent of cologne. Satomi allows it.

The vastness of the ocean always makes Satomi feel small. He watches the waves and feels a flicker of something massive underneath. Watching back. Each wave pulls back with a hiss, leaving behind not foam but a glisten of black oil that vanishes when he blinks.

Satomi shivers.

“I hate beach sunsets. It feels like the world is slipping off over the horizon and leaving me behind.” The swirl of colors and Kyouji’s presence make him dizzy—too honest, laid bare.

Kyouji pauses. “Let’s sit,” he says, shrugging off his jacket and laying it on the sand. Satomi hesitates, eyeing the fabric—clearly expensive—but follows when Kyouji drops down without ceremony.

Arm curving around him, Kyouji angles his head to Satomi’s ear and murmurs, low. “Even if the world slipped away, Satomi-kun, I’d be right here with you.”

Liar, a sharp voice bubbles inside him. Satomi is shocked by its vehemence.

He shifts, uncomfortable—then notices a slight lump in the jacket under him. He moves back, fingers catching the lapel, curious. Kyouji looks over inquisitively and reaches a hand inside the jacket pocket, pulling out a small omamori.

“Was this bothering your highness?” He jokes. But Satomi’s gaze is fixed on the charm in his hand. The fabric is faded, threads loose and fraying.

“That’s mine,” he says, looking up to Kyouji for confirmation.

“Ahh, yeah,” Kyouji runs his thumb over the charm’s stitching, embarrassed. “Call me crazy, but this thing really works. It’s kept me safe over the years.”

Satomi’s heart squeezes. Bracing for rejection, he leans his forehead against Kyouji’s side. Then grasps his shirt with both hands, pulling him in. Listens to Kyouji’s heartbeat. Alive, safe. Beating next to his protection charm for the last ten years.

Kyouji chuckles fondly. He squeezes the top of Satomi’s ear between his thumb and fingers, then runs them along the curve, tugging his earlobe.

“So damn cute today,” he whispers into the ear. “Let’s head back.”

Kyouji pulls two beers from the fridge when they return. He cracks them open over the counter and hands one to Satomi. Satomi hesitates, then takes a tiny sip. He wrinkles his nose at the bitter fizz, licking the liquid from the bottle’s edge.

Kyouji laughs, deep and warm. “Is this a seduction, Satomi-kun?”

When Satomi looks up, Kyouji’s already in his space, leaning over him. He takes Satomi’s bottle and sets it down on the counter, thumb and forefinger angling his chin up. He goes in for a kiss.

Kyouji’s mouth is soft and warm—he tastes like beer. His hands burn—cheek, hip, back, everywhere they land. Kyouji pulls him in, closer, pressing the hard line of his body against Satomi’s. Satomi’s nerves spark, electric.

Kyouji hums, a low rumble, and licks his way into Satomi’s mouth. Desire burns deep in Satomi's gut; he softens. The smoldering want is his and not his—body both familiar and strange.

His body gives, instinctively, but his head spins. It’s scary.

He pushes Kyouji away, suddenly, hard. “I don’t want to,” he says, voice shaking. Air catches in his lungs—panic and desire knotted together. His cheeks are wet. He’s trembling.

The air around him stills, holding its breath. Waiting.

Kyouji steps back, staring. He quickly schools his face to neutral. “Ok, Satomi-kun. That’s okay,” he says. One hand wipes Satomi’s cheek.

He moves forward, then stops, letting his arm fall. He lifts one of Satomi’s hands instead, kisses the palm. “Why don’t you go to bed, I’ll stay here a bit longer.”

Satomi shakes his head. The utensils start to rattle in their drawer. From the walls: drip, drip, drip. A bead of something black wiggles along the counter’s edge, quivering towards the sink.

He needs to stay with Kyouji.

“Can you come to bed? And just—lie down with me?” He asks, cheeks burning.

Kyouji’s eyes soften. He nods.

When they get under the covers, Kyouji pulls him in, slow. Satomi goes, arms and legs wrapping tight around Kyouji’s frame. He counts Kyouji’s heartbeats and lets the warmth sink into his skin.

The hotel room is blissfully quiet.

Satomi wakes to the kettle whistling. Kyouji is humming softly, back turned, pouring tea. Sunlight filters through the blinds, sketching patterns on the tile.

The light flickers, then distorts.

Satomi’s still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Then he sees it—oily, black tendrils slipping between the floor tiles, searching.

Kyouji looks back. “Good morning, sleeping beauty.” He sets a cup of tea in front of him. His coffee cup sits by the stove.

“Satomi-kun.” Kyouji waits for Satomi to drag his eyes back to him. “Something urgent came up. Work. I’ll head back first—you take the car.”

Work. As if Satomi didn’t know exactly what kind.

The strands of darkness curl and brush lightly against Kyouji’s feet. They move like smoke but snag like wire—wrapping around his ankles and tugging. The tendrils move silently, but the room hums in response. The pressure builds in Satomi’s ears, like he’s submerged deep underwater.

Kyouji doesn’t notice anything.

Kyouji turns to empty his coffee into the sink. “Let’s meet up next month. How about Lake Biwa? We can catch a bass.”

Satomi is starting to understand their dance: cold and inevitable. “We can’t.”

Something thick drips from the kitchen faucet, measured and deliberate—not water. Kyouji turns, brows lifted.

“They want to transfer me to Sapporo.” 

For a second Kyouji stops moving entirely. His hands squeeze the edge of the sink where they are brace. “Ah.” A tight smile. “Congratulations.”

The high-pitched hum grows louder.

He steps towards Satomi, pressing his hands flat on the kitchen counter. “So it’s time, then. To end things.” His voice is completely devoid of inflection.

The words jab sharp into Satomi’s solar plexus. “That’s not—”

“Satomi-kun,” Kyouji interrupts. “I always knew this day was coming. It’s time for me to stop derailing your life. Just like you asked me to.”

I didn’t, Satomi thinks. That wasn’t me.

Kyouji sets his palm over Satomi’s hand. Small black wisps circle around their skin, popping with an ice-cold static hiss as they touch. Satomi nearly recoils.

“Isn’t that why you wanted me to stay away all that time, in university?” Kyouji’s hand tightens around Satomi’s, but he relaxes it immediately. “It was the right thing to do—not ruin your chance to live your dreams and be happy.”

Satomi’s throat burns, chest throbbing with the unfairness of it all. He doesn’t know what kind of happiness his other self wanted—or why it couldn’t include Kyouji.

But he knows the deep misery that shifts under his ribcage, too old to be his. The longing ache of his bones—built from years of absence, of not-quite almost.

Adults are idiots.

“I won’t be happy without you,” Satomi says, throat tight.

The light around them dims, like the sun has ducked behind heavy clouds. The air chills. The hum rises to a wail only he can hear.

Kyouji exhales, eyes shut, pulse flickering at his throat. “Satomi-kun,” he rasps. “I’m a yakuza with a criminal record about to turn fifty. I can’t keep dirtying your life.”

The words strike deep—the echo of someone else’s pain slices through his body’s emotional scar tissue. Satomi hisses, fists clenching.

“I don’t feel dirty when you touch me, Kyouji-san.” He interlaces his fingers with Kyouji’s and grips hard, fingers digging in. “Only when you look away.”

But it’s too late.

Darkness surges, spilling from every seam—the windows, the vents, the cracks between the tiles.

The air turns rancid—acrid, metallic—like oil splattering on live wires. The singed taste stings his tongue, burns his chest. The air thickens, tar-black, syrupy as it slides down his throat and fills his lungs.

Light fractures. The room folds in on itself, corners bending inward to meet the swelling dark. The world stutters between frames. The creature bubbles up—surrounding—wrapping Kyouji completely. Pushing Satomi back—jealous, possessive. Black seeps into Kyouji’s eyes—his mouth—his skin.

Kyouji’s calluses scrape against Satomi’s palm as their hands tear apart. The hum rises to a deafening scream, then caves inward—silence. For a heartbeat, everything folds inside out.

Then Kyouji is gone.

Chapter Text

He leaps forward with a scream—then slams into cold metal.

The sound rings in his ears; his palms sting against the ship’s floor. Somewhere, a console beeps in greeting. The air smells of metal and burnt ozone.

Wada and Nakagawa turn to him with matching, grim stares. Satomi looks between them, still shell-shocked.

“You with us?” Wada asks slowly.

Satomi hears his voice through layers of cotton—numbness wrapping a heavy cocoon against the horror he can’t face—not yet.  

 “Yes, I’m here,” he says slowly. “But…not the version of me that was here earlier.”

Wada nods. “We can’t keep pulling from the same part of the space-time fabric without risking a fray. We have to pull a different you every time.”

 “The Temporal Integrity Division already sent two angry memos about it,” Nakagawa adds. “We’re still doing the paperwork from last time.”

“What—what happened?” Satomi asks. The image of the monster enveloping Kyouji—burrowing inside him—sears behind his eyelids. His gut twists.

“It was stronger than we thought, Satomi-kun,” Nakagawa explains gently.

Satomi looks out the ship’s windows—still pitch black. “That was me at fourteen,” he says. “You two sent a kid into that.”

Nakagawa looks down, grimacing. “I thought that openness was what we needed,” they say, shaking their head. “But if anything, we only made the monster stronger.”

“I told you that was the wrong move,” Wada accuses. “We’re doing my plan this time.”

Nakagawa purses their lips, but nods.

“It was too strong already. We need to go back to the root,” Wada says, focused on the readouts on his screen.

“Back to the earliest save point,” Nakagawa sighs.

“I can’t believe I said all those things to Kyouji.” Satomi lowers his face to his hands. Easier to remember the mortification than—something else. “Stupid fucking kid,” he mutters. The turmoil of his fourteen-year-old self still lingers—raw and aching.

“Well, you’ll have your chance for revenge,” Nakagawa quips glumly. Their chair turns once, slow and squeaking. They’re frowning, not totally on board with Wada’s plan.

“What? What do you mean—”

“You’ll remember more this time,” Wada interrupts. “The memories of the past are already written into your brain. No paradox.”

“What? That’s not what I—”

The controls light up again, disco ball descending. This time, the ship plays Everything, and MISIA starts to sing about a chance meeting amidst the passing of time. Satomi almost laughs.

The floor drops away below him. No briefing this time either, huh?

The console beeps low, a regretful goodbye. Everything whites out, blinding—and Satomi is gone again.

Chapter Text

Satomi jolts awake to brash laughter cutting through a smoky room. His throat aches—raw, overused, as if singing had torn something loose inside him. A solid arm hooks around his shoulder and draws him close, a laugh pressed against his ear. He turns—and the air stops moving.

God, he’s young.

Kyouji in his late-thirties—dazzling, vibrantly alive. Unguarded and happy—almost painful to look at.

Kyouji squeezes his shoulder, still grinning that disarming grin. He goes to grab his jacket and keys, ready to take Satomi home.

Last time, he’d gone quietly, stunned silent by that laughter, that warmth. Kyouji alive, healthy, impossibly here. And something else—a deeper realization that he couldn’t yet name.

But this time, he knows what happens next.

When Kyouji comes back, Satomi plants his feet, hands fisting at his sides. “I want to stay.” He’s not just here to watch it unfold. He’s here to do something.

Kyouji blinks, surprised. “This loud bar full of scary-looking old men and secondhand smoke? It’s not a place for a cute middle-schooler like you, Satomi-kun,” he says, mouth quirking.

Satomi doesn’t smile back. He drops into a chair, arms locked tight across his chest, fingers digging into the fabric of his sleeves. He meets Kyouji’s gaze and refuses to look away.

“Aw, the kid wants to stay! They just can’t stay away from your killer looks, Kyouji!” one of the men laughs, slinging an arm around Satomi. His sleeve smells like beer and overused aftershave. Satomi goes rigid.

Kyouji sighs and rubs his face like a man too tired for this. He peels the man’s arm off Satomi with an easy strength. Then settles his own arm around Satomi’s shoulders—steady, warm, anchoring. The heat runs through Satomi’s back and side, settling into his chest.  

Kyouji leans back, ankle over knee, casual as ever. He waves Kacchan over. “Orange juice for Satomi-kun,” he tells her, half-order, half-warning.

They stay, through tone-deaf ballads and mumbled anthems—the performances range from ungreased door hinge to dying walrus. Kyouji doesn’t move from his place at Satomi’s side.

Finally, he stands. “Time to go home, kid.” His hand finds the back of Satomi’s neck with a squeeze—a firm warmth that says enough. Satomi follows, throat tight.

The phantom heat of Kyouji’s arm stays with him for days—a memory that refuses to fade. His messages all go unanswered. But this time, he knows the map of Kyouji’s world too well to let him vanish into it.

Two days later, Satomi sits on the curb outside the Matsuribayashi-gumi office, hot concrete burning the backs of his thighs. He wiggles his toes, rushing to finish a popsicle that keeps melting down his fingers. He shades his eyes against the blinding sun.

Two men in dark suits walk past, laughter sharp as glass. One whistles. “Oi, Narita—your boyfriend’s here.”

“Watch it.” Kyouji’s voice cuts through the laughter—sharp and warning.

Kyouji crouches in front of Satomi, shading him from the glare. “What are you doing here Satomi-kun?”

“You didn’t answer any of my texts.” Satomi mutters. “I thought maybe you needed senior-citizen tech support—like my parents.” He’s fourteen and twenty-four all at once, and somehow neither age comes with air conditioning.

He’s been sitting here for half an hour, sweat pooling in every seam. Fifteen minutes ago, Kyouji’s boss had come out and handed him a Garigari-kun—like he was some lost kid. The sticky blue drips between his fingers, tacky and childish. He tries to wipe it off on his shorts, without success.

Kyouji sighs. “Time to go home.” He reaches for the strap of Satomi’s bag, straightening it.  “We’ve been over this. I don’t—you don’t want anything to happen, right?”

The heat rising from the sidewalk wavers too much—more miasma than mirage.

Satomi grips Kyouji’s shirt, smearing blue syrup onto the white cotton. “Then take me home,” he says, barely above a whisper.

Satomi perches on a barstool, feet dangling above the scuffed tile. A couple of Kacchan’s girls coo over him: fingers carding through his hair, hands gently pinching his cheeks. The heavy perfume stings his nose as they crowd around him; he grimaces.

On cue, Kyouji steps in—familiar drawl cutting through the chatter. “Alright, break it up, ladies.” One hand settles between Satomi’s shoulder blades, guiding him up; the other lifts his drink for a cautious sniff.

“Just orange juice, right, Kacchan?” His tone is easy, but the hand on Satomi’s back doesn’t move.

Kacchan rolls her eyes. “I don’t serve booze to minors in their middle school uniforms. Frankly, I’d prefer not to serve them at all.”

Kyouji gives her a mock salute and steers Satomi towards the door. “Satomi-kun,” he murmurs, pushing the door open. “I get wanting female attention at this age. But there must be someone your age for that, yeah?”

Moths stutter against the yellow light outside the bar. As Satomi looks, their wings twist—the after-impression of eyes, a mouth, a face—gone in a blink. One lands on Kyouji’s shoulder, crumbling into smoke and ash when he brushes it away. Something stirs at the edge of his vision; formless, skittering shapes that unravel when he tries to focus.

He wraps both his arms around Kyouji’s bicep, anchoring them both against the dark. Breathes in the familiar scent—musk, vanilla, tobacco.

“No, there isn’t,” he says, voice small but sure. Above them, the moths spark against the lamp—one by one—and vanish into smoke.

Satomi’s standing outside the soapland that Eri at the bar had mentioned. He shivers, thin summer t-shirt no protection against the chilly night. The street is steeped in the amber haze of an ancient streetlamp. He flinches at the passing stares—too sharp, too curious. Eri had come out and waited with him, but she had to leave when she got a customer.

 “He’s just trying to protect you, you know,” she’d said, fingertips light against his wrist. “He’s a playboy for sure, but he’s a good one.”

“I know.” Satomi had sighed as he stared at the puddle in front of them—unnaturally dark, not reflecting the neon signs above. “Eri-san, would you believe me if I said I’m trying to protect him, too?”

Eri had studied him for a long moment, eyes soft with something like pity. “I believe you, Satomi-kun,” she’s said at last, and turned toward the stairs, heels clicking into the dark.

Headlights flare against the dark sidewalk. The sedan rolls to a stop—sleek, glossy, predatory. Kyouji steps out, shrugging off his jacket and draping it over Satomi’s shoulders before steering him toward the car.

“Get in,” he mutters, low and sharp. “You’re a goddamn crime scene waiting to happen.”

The scent of his jacket—tobacco and something sweet, like burnt vanilla—cuts through the thick summer air. Satomi pulls it tighter around him. “My summer vacation just started,” he says. “Don’t tell me to spend it with someone my age, because I won’t.”

Kyouji shakes his head. “What’s gotten into you?” he groans.

But he stops avoiding him after that.

They go out for fancy parfaits. Conveyor belt sushi. The days fall into rhythm—bright, ordinary, deceptively happy.

They head to the aquarium on a muggy Wednesday, the air thick with salt and fish. Satomi takes pictures of the sharks in the Pacific Ocean exhibit, surreptitiously including Kyouji in the frame. The glass hums between them, reflecting Kyouji’s image into something untouchable.

He doesn’t have a single photo of Kyouji on his phone. He’d tried to take one once—but Kyouji had turned away, hand over his face, laughing too quickly. “I’m not photogenic,” he’d said. Yeah, right.

Satomi hadn’t tried again. Keeping a photo felt too implicating—something a boyfriend would do.

Shadows ripple like water across Kyouji’s profile as the sharks glide by. He takes a few more shots. A present for young Satomi.

They take a river cruise on the Dotonbori. Have afternoon tea at the Ritz Carlton. Go to the top of the Umeda Sky Building. Ride the HEP FIVE ferris wheel. Every cliché tourist-trap date Satomi can think of.

Kyouji never refuses him in this time, this body. The indulgence is meant for someone else—still innocent, not tangled in remorse and memory—but Satomi steals every chance he can get. 

“Let’s go to karaoke,” he tells Kyouji one day, heart thumping.

“Oh, missing my Kurenai?” Kyouji teases. “Come on, sensei.”

When they get in the room, Satomi hands Kyouji the menu and tells him to order while he scrolls through song lists.

The music starts, speakers buzzing faintly as Kyouji sits back down. Satomi picks up the mic.

“My ears are still bleeding from that competition. Don’t you dare touch the mic,” he says, taking a breath before he starts to sing.

Kyouji watches—rapt, unmoving—as one song spills into the next.

For a while, everything feels blissfully normal, and Satomi nearly forgets why he’s here. He succumbs to the ease of being with Kyouji without a decade of longing and regret choking the air between them.

And then one night, Kyouji drops Satomi off after shaved ice. He’s halfway back to the driver’s side when something slick and black writhes up the back of his neck—from inside his shirt.

Satomi opens his mouth—an aborted shout—just as Kyouji pulls his jacket from the seat and shrugs it on. The darkness flees, back into the cracks of the sidewalk.

A few days later, at the curry place, he sees it again—a thin, glimmering wrongness bleeding from one nostril as Kyouji gets up to pay. But the moment he throws his jacket over his shoulder, the ooze recoils, shivering, almost in fear.

“Kyouji-san, you have to wear your jacket wherever you go.” Satomi blurts it out before he can stop himself.

“In this heat?” Kyouji huffs a laugh, eyes smiling.

“Stop laughing—this is serious!” He grabs Kyouji’s hand in both of his. “Promise me you’ll take it with you everywhere. Promise me.”

The words come out too fast, too loud. He sounds like a child again, still believing promises can keep the monsters at bay.

Kyouji ruffles his hair gently. “Okay, Satomi-kun. It’s a promise.”

The dark force still follows Kyouji. It flickers here and there, out of the corner of his eye, trailing behind them. But mostly, it keeps its distance. Somehow, it’s afraid of Satomi in this time.

It inches closer, tentative—then freezes and draws back when Satomi brushes his shoulder against Kyouji, calls his name, holds his arm for support.

Satomi isn’t a middle-schooler anymore. He knows why his body keeps gravitating to Kyouji, why he keeps demanding his time and attention. The rain, scary yakuza, even a future-ending force of darkness—they were always just pretexts.

It’s too sweet to last, of course.

One day Kyouji texts: I’ll be busy with kumi business. Enjoy the rest of your break with your friends.

His replies remain unanswered. Normally, Satomi would let this behavior go, leave Kyouji to work out whatever he needed to. But this was a slight against fourteen-year-old Satomi—preparation for a sudden, years-long abandonment.

You fucker, you’re not doing this again.

His knuckles turn red from banging against the metal door of the Matsuribayashi-gumi office. A bulky man opens the door with a scowl.

“I’m looking for Kyouji-san,” Satomi says, shaking, fists clenching his pant legs.

The man laughs. A thick hand heavy with gold rings pats Satomi’s head. “I liked your Kurenai, kid. Come on.”

Satomi follows him inside. “Kumicho, Narita’s jailbait is here,” the man calls out as a rough introduction.

Every head in the room turns toward him.

Someone laughs. “Well, if you’re going in, may as well go all in.”

Satomi shifts his weight. “Where’s Kyouji-san?” he asks.

“Out,” one of the older guys says, shifting back to his newspaper.

“Important appointment,” another adds, with a wink.

“The kind you don’t refuse,” someone in the back mutters, and the room breaks into low laughter that crawls up Satomi’s spine. No one meets his eyes.

Finally, the boss speaks up, calm and deliberate. “Sensei, he wouldn’t want you here. Why don’t you go home. Trust Kyouji.”

Satomi swallows. Knows a rejection when he hears one.

The sound of laughter fades behind him as he steps outside. The air smells like heat and cigarettes—he can’t make out Kyouji’s brand.

He goes home.

-I stopped by your office. Satomi thinks that’ll get a response. But his phone stays quiet. Kyouji must already know.

-I want to eat zaru soba. No reply.

He exhales, pulling the sheets tight. Something viscous twists under the desk. He looks—nothing.

-Ok, ice cream is fine.

Silence. Except for a creeping sound under his bed.

-This isn’t funny, Kyouji-san.

Satomi starts to stay out most of the day. The harsh glare of sunlight and itch of sweat is better than the cold, watching dark of his room. Something gloating as he fails with Kyouji, again and again.

Once, only once, he goes to Kyouji’s apartment complex. He looks up at the sleek, modern exterior, glass walls gleaming imposing and impersonal, and wonders which one is Kyouji’s. Behind him, the streetlamps slowly flicker to life.

His breath arrests in his chest when he sees it. The tar-dark sprawl covering an entire unit. Tendrils pulse and intertwine in a hungry rhythm. The being is vast and breathing, something old and monstrous. The hell, Wada—how is this ‘at the root,’ Satomi thinks, feeling sick.

Kyouji goes to sleep there. He’ll take his jacket off, shower, change, then go lie down tonight. And that thing will lie down beside him. Inside him.

He doesn’t dare get closer. He can’t fight the dark force directly. Without Kyouji at his side, he can't even keep it at bay. Summoning his best middle school brat persona, he texts Kyouji: are you really abandoning me. Goes to bed, doesn’t sleep.

The next morning, Kyouji sends him a location and a time.

The house is too quiet after that. The insects stay silent in the trees. Even the shadows don’t move. Like the world is holding its breath.

Waiting.

They meet at a high-end restaurant – the kind with a private room that opens into a silent, manicured garden. Kyouji orders enough for five people, and Satomi eats more than half of it. Notes of pine and sandalwood drift in from outside.

The evil has grown bolder in his absence. It inches along the corners of the room, rustling beneath the tatami, testing the gaps like breath against skin. Satomi tries to steady his breathing, but each shallow inhale seems to pull the dark closer.

At least Kyouji is still wearing his jacket. When the tendrils edge forward, Satomi imagines he can see the faintest outline of the omamori under his breast pocket. The darkness reaches for Kyouji, then recoils as if pricked.

After the meal, they walk the narrow garden path in silence, the fresh notes of rain on grass overlaid with faint incense. Their steps on the damp stone punctuate the chirping choir of insects. Kyouji pauses, gaze distant, focused beyond the gate. Satomi feels his presence pull away, as if he were already on the other side of it. Dread slides down his spine. Under his feet, something rises to meet it. The earth crawls, tiny movements in his peripheral vision.

Finally, Kyouji sighs. “Satomi-kun, I’m sorry for ignoring you these past days. The boss is sending me to expand our connections in Southeast Asia. Things are getting harder here—he needs someone he trusts over there. It’s a long-term assignment, so this is goodbye.” Kyouji doesn't meet his eyes. 

The words don’t land all at once. They crystallize slowly, like frost forming on the inside of glass. When they finally register, Satomi’s pulse is already running wild, breath too shallow to answer.

Tears fill his eyes: they came so easily back then. His body shivers like a reed in the night wind. But under a deluge of emotion he can’t control, Satomi frowns, his mind tripping over words.

Kyouji’s “important appointment.” The phrase echoes back. The kind you can’t refuse.

The air feels charged, brittle. Something doesn’t make sense. He’s seen this act before—steady voice, eyes turned away, heart already gone.

Why is Kyouji lying?

Kyouji turns to him with an easy, happy-go-lucky smile. “Satomi-kun, you taught me how to sing, and saved me! So let’s end things here.” His delivery as upbeat and nonchalant as ever. It only tightens the vise around Satomi’s insides.

"But it’s just a short plane ride. Can’t I come visit? Besides, you said the contest is every three months, there’s a lot I still haven’t taught you,” he negotiates, laughing awkwardly.

Kyouji ruffles his hair, carding his fingers through the strands. Satomi closes his eyes, holding the ache like something breakable in his chest.

"Satomi-kun, you’re sweet, but it’s not good for you to involve yourself any further. Does a kid like you even have a passport?" Kyouji laughs. "You’ll make your parents cry proposing a dangerous plan like that. And don’t worry, Satomi-kun, overseas members are exempt from the contest, so I’m really saved.”

He knows how this ends already. If he coasts through the next three years, he’ll see Kyouji again. But his body doesn’t understand. Desperation floods through him, sending his heart racing, stomach flipping. Trapped in the unregulated anxiety of his adolescent brain, Satomi starts to believe this really is his last chance. Maybe his meddling with fate has irrevocably changed his future.

The darkness swells, tasting victory—drawn to his panic, like a shark to blood. It rises behind him, humming.

He hates the secrecy—the evasions and half-truths suspended between them like smoke. Kyouji’s unwillingness to share anything but what he’s carefully chosen to show.

Blackness floods the garden, swirling around the rocks and blades of grass, drawing in a chilly breeze. Not yet touching. But not hiding either. The shadows pulse in time with his heartbeat.

Will the darkness follow Kyouji to wherever he’s going? Will he be safe there, without Satomi to keep a watch on the monster?

No amount of logic from twenty-four-year-old Satomi’s mind can convince his teenage body that the worst won’t happen. That he won’t lose everything and not even know until it’s too late.

The hum of cicadas rises to a single, sentient wail, as if the summer itself were screaming with him. 

His stomach climbs up his throat. Dammit, he’s already crying, tears streaming down his face.  His nose clogs, throat tight and painful in a way that tells him that any attempt to speak will come out as ugly wails. His body shivers uncontrollably.

He braces himself. Finds his resolve. It’s not like he can disgrace himself any further.

He grabs Kyouji’s collar, pulling himself up onto his toes. At fourteen, the height difference is stark—Kyouji is stiff and not helping at all. The first kiss lands clumsy—half on his chin, half on his bottom lip. Hissing in frustration, he pulls harder. This time, their mouths meet properly, and the world narrows to moist heat, the taste of salt, and Kyouji's soft, shocked exhale. Satomi throws his arms around Kyouji’s neck—no escaping—punctuating the kiss with a sharp lick and tug of Kyouji’s lower lip between his teeth.

In real life, he’d never do this. He’d stiffen, look away, swallow down the words on his lips. But here, everything burns too close to the surface. In his younger self’s skin Satomi doesn’t think; he just wants, openly.

The miasma begins to unravel into mist, hissing in the air, but Satomi barely notices.

He’s come too far to turn back now—out of places to hide, out of ways to pretend.

“I love you. I’m in love with you,” Satomi pleads. His voice shakes, small and raw. “Please stay with me.”

The garden shivers at his words, the barest haze still visible in the air. Kyouji just looks at him—soft, tired, something like grief flickering in his eyes. Then arms close around him, steady, heartbreakingly kind.

The kiss that follows is slow, sweet, almost reverent. Satomi is not sure he’s ever been kissed like this. It feels like home and a goodbye all at once.

They stay like that, breathing in sync. The moment suspended in something tender and fragile between them. The air is silent. Nothing but the sound of Satomi’s heartbeat.

A seeming peace.

But he knows this man, knows him better than he did at fourteen. So he isn’t fooled.

“You didn’t answer.”

And then, smaller: “Do you love me?”

A beat. And another. A long sigh. “Satomi-kun.” Kyouji gives him a pained, fond look, not quite a smile and not quite a frown. Leans in to whisper in his ear.

“Ask me again when you grow up.”

It’s not something Satomi has ever asked before, but the answer feels like an echo—the inevitable repetition of something he’s known before. A well-worn path—always leading him back to the same place.

The garden takes a shuddering inhale, shadows dragging back over the stones with a metallic screech. The air hums a mournful lament, blowing its cold breath right into Satomi’s ear.

Light flickers, and outlines of the trees crack and bend—sinister, too many joints. A singed chemical smell fills his nose—burnt metal with a hint of rotting flesh.

The space between him and Kyouji distends, syrupy and slow—Satomi’s hand stretches across the distortion, fingertips tingling with static, never reaching.

Then the garden exhales, heavy and final. Satomi can still feel Kyouji's warmth on his lips as reality dissolves. Slowly, almost tenderly, the world folds in on itself—darkness closing like an eyelid.

Chapter Text

He blinks.

The floor hums beneath his palms, purring like it’s glad he’s back. Its vibration meets the tremor in his body—the aftershocks of grief.

Threads of light flash along the wall in greeting. He’s back on the ship.

Only now, someone sits in the captain’s chair—a silhouette split by light.  Right side human, familiar; left gleaming with chrome and fiber-optic sinew.

“Ah,” she says, turning toward him. “Welcome back, Satomi-kun.”

He stares. “…Sensei?”

Another figure from his past, though he’s not yet sure which present this version of him is from. He’s starting to suspect time travel runs more on narrative convenience than physics.

His choir teacher smiles—one corner of her mouth soft, the other clicking into place.

Satomi absently lifts his hands to his own lips. They’re still warm, aching.

Behind the captain, Wada and Nakagawa hover guiltily at their consoles like kids caught sneaking out without permission.

She looks back with a glare. “Do you have any idea how many memos I’ve received?” Her voice glitches, pitch distorting. “You went AWOL. Crossed temporal jurisdiction lines. Destabilized forty-two universes—for what? Sentimental meddling.”

Wada raises a finger. “Technically, only forty-one—”

Her mechanical iris narrows with a click. “Wada-kun.”

He lowers his hand.

Their voices blur into static, blending with the hum of the ship—Satomi barely registers the conversation. Still caught in the echo of Kyouji’s touch heating his skin. His rumbling voice in his ear. His face—brash and charming, or was it handsome and mature?

Sensei exhales—a faint hiss of steam. When she speaks again, her tone softens, recalibrated. “Forgive them, Satomi-kun. They’re so fond of you they couldn’t stop themselves.”

Wada and Nakagawa exchange matching looks of guilt.

“But you don’t need our help, Satomi-kun,” his sensei continues. “Your innocence, your openness, your devotion, your resilience—they’re already within you.” She glances back at the screens. “Time to send you home.”

Satomi lowers his head. Despite her kind words, he understands. He’s failed. Fragments of himself rise and fall, like waves crashing against his psyche. Fourteen, twenty-four, and each year in between. Every version of him, and none could reach Kyouji.

Wada nods and begins the sequence. Nakagawa gives Satomi an apologetic smile before turning away.

Control lights blink sadly. The console chirps with mournful sympathy. Sensei sits down next to him, joints clicking as they fold.

“Satomi-kun, I owe you an apology.” Her hand closes over his—metal cool, yet her touch still carries warmth. “I knew your voice was changing, but still I put pressure on you. Let you hurt yourself to meet our expectations.”

She bows, hip joints whirring. “I’m sorry.”

Satomi shakes his head, flustered. “No, not at all, Sensei! Please.”

 “No, Satomi-kun.” She straightens, looking him in the eye. “I was wrong.”

He looks down at his clenched fists. “Sensei, I wanted to sing. I couldn’t accept I was losing that part of me.”

He listens to the hiss and tick of her pistons releasing pressure as she quietly studies him.

“Satomi-kun, who you were is always a part of you,” she says, finally. “Even as it gives way to what you become next.”

The hum beneath him deepens. The ship begins to accelerate.

“I’ll never forget your beautiful soprano,” she says. “But I would like to hear your wonderful tenor, too.”

Her words land like soft static; he holds on to their anchoring kindness.

“Coordinates in,” says Wada.

“Time to go home, Satomi-kun.”

From the ceiling, The Blue Danube begins to play. Satomi cracks a weak smile. No disco ball this time.

The ship hums a questioning note—like it’s checking if he’s emotionally stable enough for re-entry. He isn’t. But he goes anyway.

As his vision dissolves, he looks at the viewing screen one last time. Millions of galaxies streak the sky, painting the darkness in a cosmically ancient glow. The stars waltz on as everything falls away.