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His fingers hovered over the doorknob.
A simple twist, a push against smooth wood, and then, home. The air would smell of faint incense from their mother’s shrine and whatever it was Kou had put in the oven—
His hand trembled.
Teru always possessed a steady grip, a deadly precision in each swipe of his blade, every stroke perfectly cultivated over the course of his childhood. It wasn’t meant to fail him.
He wasn’t meant to fail.
His hand curved into a fist, the action somehow doing nothing to prevent the shaking. He rested it against the door, knuckles chipping old paint, and inhaled around the gaping hollowness in his chest, tattered ends frayed, flesh clinging desperately over a chasm that would never, ever close.
His heart was back in that well, down, down at the bottom, nestled in a mess of broken limbs, of blood-soaked sneakers, of glassy blue eyes staring into nothing—
He breathed. It stuck in his throat, a lump to choke around, bitter like the syrup mother would have him swallow when he was ill.
Mother.
She was—
He just had to open the door and—
And.
And tell her I failed, tell her he’s—
He’s gone and it’s all my fault—
“Minamoto-senpai?”
He flinched.
Yashiro gazed up at him, eyes wet and wide, hair in wispy disarray. Aoi had put her clip back on, and it hung at an odd angle, despite her best efforts.
A touch, on his arm. Warm, where the rest of him burned cold. It quickly flitted away, a beetle scuttling in the brush, and Yashiro held her hands aloft as though corralling a wounded animal.
“I— do you—” Big, fat tears rolled down her cheeks. She hadn’t stopped crying. “Do you want us to come with you?”
Wordlessly, he shook his head.
“If, if you’re sure,” Yashiro murmured, looking down, fingers tangling together. “I just, you must be feeling—”
“Nene-chan,” Aoi wrapped a firm arm around her, “let’s not bother him.” She sent him a solemn glance as she lightly tugged Yashiro back down the steps, and Teru watched as they settled on the final one, Aoi gently guiding Yashiro’s head to rest on her shoulder.
Akane stood to the side, glasses firmly back in place. A barrier. Teru couldn’t blame him, though, there was an offer there, etched in his exhausted frown, in the tilt of his head. He appeared to receive Teru’s answer, giving a subtle nod as he took a seat next to Aoi on the steps.
“Take your time,” he said softly.
Teru clenched his teeth together until they ached, and faced the door.
A swift twist, a push.
He was in. The door fell shut behind him like the lid of a coffin.
There was no incense.
A scent he’d almost forgotten, a recipe Kou had never dared to replicate, tickled his nose, spread to the gaping pit inside him, plucked at its ragged edges. He shivered. Breathed. His back straightened, shoulders stiff. There wasn’t time to linger, he just needed to put one foot in front of the other until—
“Kou, is that you?”
He staggered, arm shooting out to catch himself, nails digging into the wall.
“Oh! Where have you been? Your father’s looking for you, he says you haven’t been out with the others, are you—” A hand touched his cheek in a horribly familiar gesture, and Teru looked into—
Vacant, dead —
—vivid, lively blue, twinkling with a gentle concern.
His throat cinched shut.
“Teru? Are you alright?” A thumb brushed his cheek. “Is Kou with you?” She peered around him into a dark, empty hallway. Teru swallowed.
“Mom.” Against his will, it wavered in his mouth, caught on his teeth as though tripping over knives.
Instantly, she frowned, concern deepening in the crease of her brow, and—
And—
“Teru? Did something happen?”
He blinked.
Took a breath. It felt like razors in his lungs.
His lips stretched, spread into a thin smile. It shivered in place, glazed in glass, and he couldn’t afford for it to fracture.
“He’s with a friend.” Bitter, bitter, bitter on his tongue, a viscous tar. “He should have called you.”
“Oh, is he with that Mitsuba-kun? They’re thick as thieves, those two.”
“Yes,” another failure, another reminder, “he’s staying the night.”
“Well, I’ll leave his cutlets in the fridge for him when he gets home tomorrow.”
“He’d like that.”
She smiled, teeth pearly white.
“Come help me set up, your father will be here any minute.” Her hand fell away, leaving a coldness behind.
He followed her into the kitchen.
It looked wrong.
It was wrong.
It was wrong for something to be cooking and for Kou to be nowhere in sight.
Mechanically, he collected plates from the cabinets, set them neatly on the table, laid out the cutlery—
“Teru, we’re four tonight,” she said over his shoulder. He froze. “Funny, Kou did the same thing,” she muttered, and slid another plate onto the table.
She set a final, fifth one on the counter, for food that would wither away in the fridge, uneaten.
Though, it would never have time to rot. This world wouldn’t last long enough for that.
Teru numbly dished out the vegetables for a meal he wouldn’t be able to eat, chopsticks stiff between his fingers.
“Teru?” Warmth cupped his forehead, and he stifled a flinch. “Are you certain you’re feeling alright?”
Heat burned at the back of his eyes, surged in a roaring flame, and his knees shuddered.
“Of course,” he said, and she frowned.
“Teru, I’m old enough to know when you’re lying to me.”
The glass cracked. His mouth wavered. Trembled.
“Oh.” Sympathy shone in her eyes, a solemn grief he’d caught in her gaze since he was handed his sword for the first time and she watched him walk out the door, staggering under its weight.
“Come here,” she said, arms wrapping around him, tugging his head to her shoulder, and—
His knees buckled.
He didn’t scream. He didn’t cry, didn’t wail or sob.
He’d learned long ago to be silent.
His shoulders shook, hitched on every ragged breath, every wheeze, and she murmured above him, fingers threading through his hair, hand stroking his back, and he clung to her like he was six years old again, face buried in the crook of her neck, knees digging into the kitchen floor.
And she held him. Held him, like she could pick up all the pieces he’d become and stick them back together.
“It’s too much, isn’t it?” She whispered, like it was their ugly little secret. “I’m sorry, Teru. I’m so sorry.”
I’m sorry.
I failed. I’m so sorry.
The words pressed against the back of his teeth, tangled in his tongue, and he swallowed them all down, down, until they sat in a broken, crumpled heap at the bottom of the jagged pit yawning inside him.
He clung tighter.
“Your father will be here soon.” It was a warning, an apology, a deep, mourning regret, and Teru sniffed, pulling away. He viciously scrubbed his sleeve over his eyes, his nose, shame coiling in his stomach.
A hand reached for his jaw, held it gently, like he would shatter under its grip.
“I’ll tell him you’re not feeling well,” she said. A gift, a reprieve. A guilt that she couldn’t give anything more, and he didn’t blame her. Couldn’t.
“I’ve heard what he tells you,” she sighed, straightening his collar, “I’m aware you think you have to keep it all inside, but I’m here, Teru.” She gently patted his cheek. “If you ever wish to talk about it.”
His heart lurched.
“I know,” he whispered.
She smiled, sad and small, and he couldn’t leave like this, couldn’t leave with her not knowing, with her and Tiara waiting and waiting for Kou to come home—
The front door squealed on its hinges, slammed against the wall. Footsteps clipped down the hall, and a hand pushed at his shoulder, urging him to make his escape.
“Rest, Teru. You need it,” she said softly, and Teru stumbled to the stairs, glancing back one last time.
Blue, pale, alive, and so very gentle.
He opened his mouth—
The kitchen door swung open.
Teru turned, and fled.
~
He shook the aftershocks from his ankles as he landed from his bedroom window, sword thumping against his back.
“There you are, shit, we didn’t know your dad was gonna show up; bet he thought we were a bunch of delinquents.”
Akane stumbled from the bushes, Aoi and Yashiro behind him, plucking leaves and twigs from their clothes.
“Are you, um, did it…” Yashiro stammered, hands wringing in her dress. “Are you okay?”
Teru blinked.
His gaze wandered over to Akane.
“How long will it take?” The words rang heavy, hollow.
“It, uh, shouldn’t be too long,” he assured, “I’ve got the key, and all we’ll need to do is…”
Teru nodded, half-listening as Akane rambled.
“Then we need to get started,” he said, marching forward. He didn’t look back, didn’t falter as he started into the road, and maybe that made him a coward, but he couldn’t afford to stop. If he did, he wouldn’t be able to keep going.
And that was all he needed to do, to bring Kou back.
To erase his mother.
To be rid of this world.
Keep going.
Hands slid into his own, a third settling on his shoulder. He startled, nearly losing his stride. Their grips only squeezed, steady, unrelenting.
Alive.
Teru breathed around the hole in his heart.
Maybe his mother would never know it, never see it, but he would bring Kou home, this world withering away before she ever had a chance to mourn, though...
Just think of this as a bad dream.
As if he could ever pretend it was anything other than real.
He had failed. There was no erasing that. He could only step forward, time clenched between his teeth, pinned beneath nails crusted in blood, and never fail again.
Not while he had breath in his lungs.