FR𔘓‎‎‎NKIE

Having argued with your boyfriend over a mere trifle, it never crossed your mind that by nightfall, his mother would arrive in a state of distress, weeping because he had yet to return home.

warning ; angst, mention about hikaru's disappearance, a hint at hikaru's death, reader almost has a panic attack / nervous breakdown.

based on the 01 episode of the anime / chapter of the manga.

part 01 (?)

The freezing rain isn’t merely falling—it’s methodically hammering you into the sodden earth, which reeks of rotting leaves. The water crashes against your shoulders with the weight of lead, soaking your heavy sweater until it drags you down like a suit of wet chainmail. Every ragged breath scorches your lungs with dampness, leaving a metallic tang of mud and copper in your mouth. Your wheezing gasps are instantly swallowed by the forest’s grey haze. The droplets, sharp and merciless, lash at your pale skin like a million tiny needles, but your body has long since gone numb. You have become nothing more than an exposed, pulsing nerve. The only thing driving you forward through the thorny brush—which tears at your clothes and claws at your thighs—is a primal, animal terror.

The flashlight in your trembling, white-knuckled fingers—nails broken and jagged from clawing at bark—dances in an erratic rhythm. Its dim beam frantically cuts through the impenetrable gloom, catching only fragments of this liquid hell: the skeletal fingers of branches, treacherous, gnarled roots coiling like serpents, and an endless curtain of filthy water.

"Hikaru!"

The cry, strained into a hauntingly thin rasp, pierces the forest’s silence only to be instantly drowned out by the roar of the storm.

You freeze, clutching the slick, moss-covered bark of an ancient oak just to keep from collapsing into the muck. Your chest heaves; your heart hammers against the back of your throat, sending a dull throb through your temples. The flashlight’s beam jerks to the side, and you let out a sharp cry, recoiling in horror. A yard away, amidst a tangle of black shadows, looms an unnaturally contorted, emaciated female silhouette. Hollow eye sockets stare back at you with silent reproach. It takes a second of paralyzed dread for your mind to register the truth: it was merely the twisted trunk of a dead pine, its wood long since rotted away. The forest is mocking you, conjuring ghosts where you so desperately seek a living soul.

Swallowing a thick, bitter lump of bile, you force yourself away from the tree. Your legs thrum with exhaustion; your boots sink into the sucking mire. Time has died here. It has stretched into an infinite loop where nothing exists but the piercing cold and the clinging dark. Your memory, however, has sharpened to a cruel edge, ruthlessly throwing back scraps of your last argument.

"Fine, go! I can handle it myself, I don't need your stupid help!" — his voice, ringing with spiteful resentment, now echoes in your mind like a death sentence.

"Hikaru hasn't come back... He’s been gone too long!" — his mother’s face, distorted by terror.

Guilt chokes you more fiercely than your frozen collar. Why did you let him go? Why did you let pride win? You knew this cursed mountain didn't forgive mistakes—that it swallowed the careless whole. But Hikaru was perpetual motion; he was stubbornness and a crooked smirk. He couldn't just become part of this woods' dead silence. He was just taking cover from the rain. He was waiting for you at the old shrine. He always waited.

A sudden obstacle catches your foot, sweeping the ground from under you. Carried by momentum, you pitch forward, landing face-first in the freezing slurry with a sickening splash. The flashlight slips from your weakened grip, blinks twice on the edge of a ravine, and tumbles down, plunging the world into a suffocating, ringing blindness. You claw at the earth, your knuckles cracking as you grip the soil, feeling the slime of worms and humus beneath your nails. Searing, acrid tears finally break through the dam of your numbness, mingling with the rain and mud on your cheeks.

"Fuck... Hikaru, please..." you wheeze into the void, gasping through your sobs.

A rustle. Heavy, branch-snapping footsteps. Someone is charging down the slope directly toward you. Fear and a wild, frantic hope collide in your chest, knocking the wind out of you. You force your head up, squinting into the grey blur of the rain.

"Yoshiki..." the name escapes your cracked lips like a prayer.

The figure skids to a halt. His massive frame heaves from the exertion, appearing as a black void against the leaden sky. Seeing you there—smeared in filth, convulsing, utterly shattered—he clears the distance in two strides. Yoshiki catches you under your arms just as your strength finally gives out, literally hauling you out of the quagmire. You collapse into his embrace, clutching desperately at the soaked, coarse fabric of his jacket, searching for even a ghost of warmth.

"Yoshiki... I looked everywhere..." you stammer, your words choked by tears as you bury your face in his shoulder. "He’s nowhere! This is insane, don't you see? It’s some kind of mistake! He’s just hiding, he’s joking... he couldn't have just vanished!"

Yoshiki remains silent. His own hands, cold as a corpse, grip your water-logged sweater. He feels physically sick seeing you so broken, balanced on the precipice of madness. But worse still was the absolute, dead emptiness he had encountered up there, on the summit. He gently but firmly cupped your mud-stained face, forcing you to look at him. In Yoshiki's eyes lies a grief so bottomless, so unbearable, that your breath hitches in your throat.

"[name]..." his voice is low and cracked, but it carries the cold iron of a verdict. "Hikaru isn't here. He’s not here anymore."

You shake your head in disbelief, your pupils dilating in fierce, primal denial. "What are you saying?! He’s here! He said he had to come here! He’s waiting at the top—you just didn't look hard enough!"

You begin to thrash in his arms, shoving at his chest, trying to hurl yourself back into the darkness where the mountain exhales the scent of death. Your movements are chaotic, driven by animal panic. But Yoshiki pins your shoulders with a vice-like grip, his fingers bruising your skin, robbing you of the ability to move. Every flailing struggle echoes in him as a dull ache.

"Look at yourself! You can barely stand!" he barks over the roar of the rain. "We’re leaving. The rescuers have already called for the dogs. You’ll die of hypothermia if we stay!"

"You coward! Let me go!" you scream, a cry so full of despair and spit that it seems to rip the sky in two. You strike his shoulder with your fist. "He’s cold! He’s afraid of the dark! I won't leave without him!"

Yoshiki sets his jaw so hard the muscles jump in his cheeks. A glimmer of moisture catches in his dark eyes, which he instantly blinks away. He doesn't argue further. He simply grabs your wrist, his fingers digging into your skin, and hauls you after him—away from the slope, away from the ruins of your life.

You dig your boots into the mud, striking at him with your free hand, your weak, ragged curses lost to the rolls of thunder, but he drags you like a ragdoll. He doesn't look back. He knows that if he looks at your bloodied, broken face one more time, his resolve will crumble into ash, and you will both be left to rot in this earth. When you turn back toward the mountain one last time, straining to see a familiar silhouette in the fog, Yoshiki simply covers your eyes with his broad palm, forcing your head against his chest.

"Stop. You’re not yourself. Just keep moving your feet."

Even at the moment of his death, Hikaru cannot let you leave him. He can't stand the thought of you moving on without him, finding a new boyfriend, or even having a family life with someone other than him. He won't let this happen.

warnings ; hikaru's own death, mention possessiveness, yandere (?)

part 02 (?)

The icy rain lashed his face without mercy, but Hikaru barely felt it—a creeping numbness was already closing in on his heart. He lay in the muck, every pore drinking in the chill of the sodden earth, letting the elements wash over his wounds if only to drown out the dull, grinding ache radiating through his body. A single, mocking thought pulsed in his mind: how poetic. A grand legacy, years of training—all shattered by a pathetic stroke of bad luck. How could he have screwed up this badly, this catastrophically? His blood-soaked clothes clung to him like a premature shroud, as crimson threads snaked from his temple and the back of his head, tinting the rainwater a pale rose. His bones didn't just hurt; they groaned with a metallic, grating friction.

Fucking hell... a lot of my bones are broken... and my phone is in no better shape.

Faces flickered before his eyes like frames from a mangled film reel. His father’s eternally stern gaze, his mother’s soft voice, Yoshiki... Every image was steeped in the bitterness of unkept promises and sharp stabs of regret. The seconds were slipping through his fingers, taking with them the remnants of his life and everything he held dear.

I'm sorry, Dad... looks like our duties are ending with my generation.

He tried to move even a single finger, but his body responded only with a hollow, ragged groan of bone and a paralyzing convulsion. His vision blurred, sliding over the grey crags and the endless torrents pouring from the heavens. These mountains had become his scaffold. Stupid. Nauseatingly stupid.

I came to fulfill my duty, but I just had to end my mission by losing my footing.

A bitter smile contorted his bloodless lips. A laugh that was more of a wheeze caught in his throat as he struggled to swallow thick, iron-tasting saliva.

And I had to be the banana peel left on my own mountain. Just my luck.

But then the chaos of memory parted, and there you were. Your image surged into his fading consciousness, forcing back the cold and the dark. He clung to it like a drowning man clutching a jagged thorn, almost physically feeling the warmth of your hands and that intoxicating scent of your hair. The memory of your gaze flashed behind his eyelids—trusting and full of love—and your cheeks, flushed crimson after your first, tentative kiss. That memory burned hotter than his broken ribs.

His heart skipped a beat, constricted by the vice of a selfish, ferocious love. Kami-sama, he simply couldn't let you fade away or leave you alone. But even more unbearable was the thought of someone else taking his place. Someone else touching your skin, hearing your laughter, or comforting you in the night. A selfish, dark chill spread through his chest, intertwining with his love. It was vile. Loathsome. He felt physically sick at the mere mental image of you finding happiness with another.

"[name]..." he rasped. His voice was a ghost of itself; every breath was a battle, as if his lungs were filling with molten lead. "I don't... want you... to find someone... anyone but that..."

He doesn't want to die. He doesn't want to leave you. He doesn't want to lose all the emotions he feels with you. Why is this so unfair?

Unfair, unfair, unfair.

The world around him finally began to liquefy. Directly above him, through the veil of rain, a strange, unnatural, pulsing slime began to ooze. The creature leaned down, wordlessly studying him with its inhuman eyes. In any other state, Hikaru would have been gripped by horror, but now... now it felt like the only way out. If this was the price to ensure you never belonged to another—he would pay it without a second thought.

A trembling hand, caked in filth and blood, reached out toward the darkness.

This is... Lord Brainsnatcher. Huh.

His fingers brushed against the viscous substance, embracing the inevitable. His clouded eyes met the abyss.

"I'll even settle for you," he exhaled, feeling his consciousness finally plunge into the black void. "But you must ke..ep h...her wi...th you. Don’t let her go..."

The moment the entity is ripped from Yoshiki’s body, his consciousness slams back into his frame with a violent, bone-deep shudder that leaves him gasping on the cold bathroom tile. As the fog of possession clears, the first thing he feels isn't the dampness of his clothes or the stinging in his eyes, but the phantom, lingering pressure of his own fingers having been wrapped around your throat. When he looks up and sees you shivering, clutching the fresh, blooming bruises on your neck, his face doesn't just show guilt—it undergoes a total psychological collapse, turning a ghostly, hollow white. He scrambles backward until his spine hits the edge of the bathtub, his breath hitching in a way that sounds like he’s choking on his own heart. He stares at his hands with a visceral, nauseated loathing, shaking so violently that he has to tuck them into his armpits as if they were venomous snakes he can no longer control. To a person as fiercely protective and grounded as Yoshiki, the realization that his own physical form was used as a weapon against you is an unforgivable stain on his soul. God, what kind of monster is he?

warning ; hurt/comfort, mention of choking, yoshiki doesn’t control himself or his actions, “hikaru” behaves as usual.

based on the 05 episode of the anime, from 09 to 012 chapter of the manga.

The steam from the bath still hangs heavy and damp in the air, but the silence in the small bathroom is suffocating as Yoshiki sits on the edge of the tub, his hands trembling so violently that the cap of the ointment bottle clatters against the floor.

He doesn't look at your face; his eyes are fixed entirely on the dark, mottled bruises blooming across your throat—the literal shape of his own frantic grip. Every time he reaches out to apply the cream, his fingers stop inches from your skin, hovering as if he’s afraid he’ll burn you or, worse, snap again.

When he finally makes contact, the slight, involuntary flinch you give from the tenderness of the swelling makes him recoil as if he’s been electrocuted, his breath hitching in a jagged, pathetic way.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, his voice so thin and cracked it barely sounds like him, his head dropping until his damp hair hides his eyes. "Don't... don't try to be brave for me. I did this. I felt it happen, and I couldn't stop it."

You reach out, your fingers overlapping his cold, shaking hand to steady him, and the rasp in your voice when you tell him it wasn't him—that it was the thing from the mountain—only makes his expression fracture further.

He looks up then, his eyes rimmed with a raw, agonizing red, searching yours for a fear that he desperately believes should be there.

"It was my weight on you," he says, his thumb finally smoothing the cool gel over the purple marks with a delicacy that is almost painful. "Possessed or not, these are my hands, and I almost... I almost lost you because I'm not strong enough to keep that rot out."

As you pull him closer, forcing him to meet your gaze and breathing through the ache in your throat to calm the frantic thrum of his pulse, he eventually leans his forehead against your shoulder, letting out a long, broken sob that he’s been choking on since the entity was ripped away.

For a long moment, he just stays there, anchored by your touch, trying to reconcile the fact that you are still breathing against him with the terrifying memory of how easily he could have made it stop.

© nessmerty, 2026. Do not steal or edit my work pls.

BONUS

Standing in the shadow of the doorway, Hikaru watches the two of you through the narrow slit of the cracked door, his head tilted at an angle that is just slightly too sharp to be human. His large, dark eyes don't blink as he observes the scene—the way Yoshiki’s shoulders heave with silent, ugly sobs and the way your bruised skin pales under the pressure of the ointment.

To the entity, this is a baffling display of human inefficiency. He had already "fixed" the immediate danger by ripping the spirit out of Yoshiki; in his eldritch logic, the problem was solved the moment your heart kept beating. But as he watches Yoshiki recoil from your touch as if his own flesh is poisonous, Hikaru feels a new, cold sensation prickling at the edges of his stolen consciousness.

He recognizes the physical marks on your neck as "damage," but he cannot fathom why Yoshiki is breaking apart over a survival. He sees the way you lean into Yoshiki, offering comfort to the person who nearly ended you, and it contradicts every predatory instinct the entity possesses.

For the first time, the thing wearing Hikaru’s face begins to understand that "harm" to a human isn't just a broken vessel or a torn muscle—it is a psychic fracture that lingers long after the skin knits back together.

⤿ "hikaru", hikaru indou, yoshiki tsujinaka, maki yuuta, asako yamagishi, yuuki tadokoro, tanaka

warnings ; fluff, crack and just a sweet drabble

"HIKARU"

When Hikaru notices someone showing romantic interest in you, the air around him doesn't just get tense—it turns heavy, cold, and utterly stagnant. At first, he’ll stand perfectly still, his body becoming a rigid, hyper-realistic statue as he analyzes the "threat" with eyes that have suddenly lost their human spark, turning into flat, dark voids that track the rival’s every heartbeat. He doesn't feel a sting of pride or a flash of anger like a normal boy; instead, he feels a terrifying, existential glitch, a sense that his very tether to this world is being frayed. He will glide into your personal space with a movement that’s a little too smooth to be natural, placing a hand on your shoulder with a grip that is unyieldingly heavy, effectively anchoring you to him. To the person flirting with you, he doesn't offer a glare or a challenge, but rather a wide, fixed grin that shows just a few too many teeth, tilting his head at an angle that feels physically impossible. He might lean toward them and breathe out a "hello" that sounds like wind through a hollow cave, his presence radiating a primal, predatory wrongness that makes the other person’s survival instincts scream. If they don't leave immediately, his shadow might seem to stretch and twitch independently of his body, creeping toward the rival’s feet like a dark ink stain. Once he successfully scares them off, the terrifying aura vanishes instantly, replaced by a desperate, suffocating need for reassurance. He’ll become intensely clingy, touching your hair or holding your hand with a trembling strength, his voice dropping to a vulnerable, distorted whisper as he asks if he’s still "filling the space" correctly. He isn't worried about your heart—he’s worried about his own existence, terrified that if you look at someone else for too long, he will simply cease to be "Hikaru" and dissolve back into the hungry, nameless thing from the mountains.

The air in the hallway usually smells like floor wax and old books, but the moment the boy from your math class corners you, the atmosphere shifts. It’s subtle at first—the flickering of a fluorescent light overhead, a sudden, heavy stillness in the corridor.

"So, I was thinking," the boy says, leaning against the lockers, trying to look casual. "Maybe we could grab a drink after school? There’s that new place near the station—"

He stops. His smile falters, then drains away completely. He isn't looking at you anymore; he’s looking at something directly behind your shoulder.

A heavy, solid weight settles onto your back. Cold, pale arms wind around your neck, and a chin rests firmly on your shoulder. Hikaru. He doesn't say a word. He just stares. Eyes are wide, glassy, and fixed on the boy with a terrifying, unblinking intensity. He looks like a doll that has been possessed by something far too large for its porcelain shell.

"Hikaru! Hey," you start, trying to lighten the mood. "We were just—"

"I know," Hikaru interrupts. His voice is flat, lacking its usual performative "cheerful" lilt. It sounds like a recording being played back at the wrong speed. "I heard. He wants to take you somewhere."

Hikaru’s grip tightens. His fingers dig into your jacket, not enough to hurt, but enough to make it clear you aren't going anywhere. He tilts his head—crack—a sickeningly wet sound echoes from his neck.

"Why?" Hikaru asks the boy. "She is already mine to walk home. I am her friend. You are... an extra."

The boy pales. "Uh, sorry, I didn't mean—I just thought—"

Hikaru leans forward, his face inching past yours toward the boy. His shadow on the floor begins to bleed outward, stretching long and jagged, looking less like a teenage boy and more like a mass of tangled, dark limbs.

"If you take her to the station," Hikaru whispers, his breath strangely cold against your ear, "Will you bring her back? Or will I have to come find you? I don't think you would like it if I came to find you."

The boy doesn't wait for a punchline. He mumbles an apology, grabs his bag, and practically sprints down the hall.

As soon as the boy is gone, the heavy, suffocating pressure vanishes. The hallway feels normal again. Hikaru unwinds his arms from your neck, but he doesn't pull away. Instead, he spins you around to face him, his hands gripping your waist. He looks... small. His eyes are darting over your face, checking your expression with a frantic, desperate hunger.

"Did I do it right?" he asks. His voice is back to its "human" pitch, but it’s trembling. "Was I scary enough? Or was he better?"

He starts tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers cold and slightly trembling.

"He looked at you like you were something to eat," Hikaru mutters, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion. "But only I'm allowed to look at you like that. Because if you go with him, I... I'll start to come apart. I won't have a 'shape' anymore."

He leans his forehead against yours, closing his eyes. For a second, you can feel the faint, rhythmic thrumming of something deep inside him—a heartbeat that’s just a little too slow to be real.

"Don't look at extras," he pleads, his voice a soft, distorted rasp. "Just look at me. I'll be whoever you want. I'll be the best 'Hikaru' there is for you."

HIKARU INDOU

The "real" Hikaru is a stark contrast to his supernatural counterpart, characterized by a sharp, high-strung intensity and a deeply buried but fierce protective streak. When he sees someone flirting with you, his jealousy isn't a quiet, creeping chill; it is a sudden, volatile flare of heat that radiates from his very posture. He doesn’t stand still or tilt his head unnaturally; instead, his shoulders square, his jaw sets into a hard, stubborn line, and his eyes—normally so expressive and bright—narrow into a sharp, piercing glare that seems to physically shove the other person back. He’ll cut through the conversation with a blunt, sarcastic remark, his voice dripping with a dry, defensive wit that makes it clear exactly how little patience he has for a rival. There is no "uncanny valley" here, just pure, hot-blooded teenage irritation fueled by a desperate fear of being replaced or seen as "not enough." He’ll move in close, not to "merge shadows," but to assert his place at your side, perhaps shoving his hands into his pockets and leaning his shoulder against yours in a way that says *this is my person* without him having to utter a single embarrassing word. He won't threaten the rival with cryptic metaphors about being eaten; he’ll simply make the atmosphere so incredibly awkward and sharp with his blatant disapproval that the other person feels like they’re intruding on a private, untouchable bond. Once they finally leave, Hikaru won't be clingy or fragile; he’ll be grumpy and restless, huffing a breath of air and looking everywhere but at you, his ears burning a bright, betraying red. He’ll mutter something dismissive about how "that guy was a total idiot," all while his heart hammers against his ribs, terrified that you might have actually liked the attention, before he finally settles down enough to awkwardly grab your sleeve and pull you toward your next destination just a little faster than necessary.

"Who was that?" Hikaru asks, his voice already sharp and vibrating with an annoyance he’s doing a terrible job of hiding as soon as the guy walks away.

He’s standing with his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his posture so stiff he looks like he’s ready to bolt or start a fight, and his eyes are narrowed into suspicious slits as he watches the back of the retreating stranger.

When you tell him it was just someone asking for your number, he lets out a harsh, disbelieving "Ha!" that’s way too loud, his face instantly flushing a deep, frantic red that climbs all the way to the tips of his ears.

"And? Did you give it to him? Because he looked like a total moron, honestly, wearing those shoes with those pants," he blusters, his hands shoved deep into his pockets as he kicks at a stray pebble with unnecessary violence.

He tries to maintain a cool, detached expression, but his jaw is clenched so tight you can see the muscle ticking, and he keeps stealing quick, panicked glances at your face to see if you’re smiling about the interaction.

"I’m just saying, you have terrible taste if you thought that was charming," he mutters, huffing a breath that blows his bangs out of his eyes, his bravado crumbling into a restless, twitchy energy.

He won't look you in the eye, instead focused intently on a crack in the sidewalk as he grumbles about how "people are so annoying lately," but he doesn't move an inch away from you; in fact, he subtly shifts his weight until his shoulder is pressed firmly against yours.

When you finally laugh and tell him you didn't give the guy anything, the tension leaves him so fast he almost sags, though he immediately tries to cover it up by scoffing and rolling his eyes.

"Whatever, I didn't care anyway," he lies poorly, his voice cracking just a tiny bit before he reaches out and catches the edge of your sleeve, tugging you forward with a sudden, clumsy urgency. "Come on, we're gonna be late. And stop looking back there, it's embarrassing."

YOSHIKI TSUJINAKA

When Yoshiki gets jealous, it isn’t a supernatural chill or a sharp, aggressive flare; it’s a heavy, suffocating blanket of quiet intensity that wraps around the entire room. The moment he sees someone showing you romantic interest, his natural stoicism hardens into something much more formidable and unreadable. He won't make a scene or shout, but his presence becomes an immovable wall between you and the other person, his tall frame casting a shadow that feels intentional and protective. His gaze, usually tired or contemplative, becomes fixated on the "intruder" with a steady, unblinking focus that makes the other person feel like they are being dissected under a microscope. He doesn’t use uncanny smiles or supernatural threats; instead, he uses a crushing, awkward silence that lingers just a second too long after the other person speaks, making every word they say feel foolish and out of place. Yoshiki will subtly but firmly reclaim your attention by stepping into your line of sight or perhaps reaching out to adjust your scarf or coat with a lingering, possessive familiarity that screams "you belong here with me." He doesn't need to say a word to make the rival feel like a trespasser on private property. Internally, his jealousy is a turbulent mix of deep-seated insecurity and a fiercely loyal protectiveness; he’s terrified that someone more "normal" or less "haunted" than him could offer you a better life, and that fear manifests as a desperate need to keep you within arm's reach. Once the person finally retreats, exhausted by the sheer weight of Yoshiki’s silent disapproval, he won't brag or act tough. Instead, he’ll let out a long, shaky exhale, his hand perhaps lingering on your wrist or the small of your back a moment longer than necessary as he looks at you with a gaze that is suddenly soft, searching, and deeply vulnerable, silently pleading with you to stay by his side without him ever having to admit how much the thought of losing you actually hurts him.

Yoshiki doesn’t realize he’s glaring until the air between you and the other student practically crystallizes. As he watches you laugh at some guy’s mediocre joke, his fingers tighten around the strap of his bag until his knuckles go white, his usual exhaustion replaced by a heavy, grounding thrum of possessiveness. He doesn't storm over; he drifts, a silent and looming shadow that effectively blocks the sun.

Stepping into the conversation without an invitation, Yoshiki doesn't look at the guy at all; he keeps his eyes locked on you, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly resonance that cuts right through the other person's chatter.

"We’re going to be late," he says, the lie hanging in the air because there’s nowhere you actually need to be. The other student stammers, trying to regain his footing, and asks if you’re busy later, but Yoshiki answers for you, his gaze finally shifting to the rival with a cold, unblinking intensity that makes the guy’s smile falter.

"She's with me," he states simply, the words carrying a weight that feels far heavier than a casual friendship. The silence that follows is agonizing—Yoshiki just stands there, an immovable wall of quiet disapproval, until the guy mumbles an excuse and scurries off.

Once he’s gone, the tension in Yoshiki’s shoulders doesn't break; it just shifts. He stares at the spot where the guy was standing for a long beat before turning to you, his expression softening into something pained and frustratingly vulnerable.

"Was he that funny?" he asks, his voice sounding smaller, stripped of its protective edge.

When you try to tease him about being jealous, he huffs and looks away, his hand reaching out to firmly catch your wrist, his thumb tracing the skin there as if checking your pulse.

"I don't care if he's funny," he mutters, pulling you toward the exit with a sudden, restless energy. "Just... don't look at people like that. It makes me feel like I'm losing my grip on things."

MAKI YUUTA

When Maki gets jealous, it’s like a live wire sparking—sharp, frantic, and impossible to ignore. The moment he catches someone else showing you romantic interest, his entire "cool delinquent" persona hits a snag, replaced by a restless, high-voltage energy that makes him physically unable to stay still. He won’t stand back and brood; instead, he’ll invade the conversation with a loud, boisterous laugh or a sudden, sharp-edged comment, his voice dropping into a defensive growl that he tries (and fails) to pass off as casual. He’ll post up right next to you, perhaps slinging an arm over your shoulders or leaning his weight against you with a deliberate, heavy possessiveness that screams to the outsider that the spot beside you is already taken. His eyes, usually bright and full of life, narrow into a fierce, territorial glare directed solely at the rival, his jaw tightening every time they dare to make you smile. Internally, Maki is a storm of frantic insecurity; he’s terrified that someone smoother, smarter, or "more normal" will catch your eye and realize how much of a mess he actually is, so he overcompensates by being twice as loud and twice as present. He’ll steer the conversation toward inside jokes or shared memories that the other person couldn’t possibly understand, effectively building a wall of "us" that shuts the stranger out completely. If the person doesn’t take the hint, Maki’s temper starts to fray at the edges, his hands clenching into fists inside his pockets as he makes the atmosphere so prickly and uncomfortable that the rival eventually retreats just to escape the sheer pressure of his gaze. Once they’re finally gone, the bravado collapses instantly; his face will erupt into a deep, betraying crimson, and he’ll pull his hood up or ruffle his hair in a fit of bashful frustration, muttering under his breath about how "that guy was a total loser" while refusing to meet your eyes, all the while staying glued to your side for the rest of the day as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear the moment he lets go.

"So, uh... what was that guy’s deal? Seriously? He looked like he’d never even seen a girl before or something," Maki mutters, kicking a stray pebble across the pavement with way more force than necessary.

He’s walking so close to you that your shoulders keep bumping, his hands shoved so deep into his pockets you’d think he was trying to rip the fabric. When you let out a little laugh and tell him he sounded like a total jealous delinquent back there, he freezes mid-stride, his entire face turning a shade of red that rivals a stoplight.

"Jealous?! Me? Psh, give me a break! I was just—the guy was being a creep, alright? Someone had to step in before he bored you to death!" He scoffs, whipping his head away and pulling his hood up to hide the fact that even his ears are burning.

You give him a playful nudge, teasingly asking if he was worried you’d actually give the guy your number, and Maki’s bravado finally snaps. He stops, spinning around to face you with a look that’s half-indignant and half-pained, his eyes wide and frantic behind his bangs.

"No! I mean—maybe! Look, you’re way too nice, okay? You just smile at everyone and they think they have a shot, but they don't know you like I do!" He huffs, his voice cracking just a tiny bit before he lowers it to a mumble, his gaze dropping to his shoes. "Anyway, I’m the one who’s supposed to be hanging out with you today. Not some random loser who doesn't even know your favorite snacks."

He bites his lip, finally stealing a quick, shy glance at you, his hand twitching like he wants to grab yours but isn't sure he’s allowed to after acting like such a brat.

ASAKO YAMAGISHI

When Asako feels a flicker of jealousy, it doesn’t manifest as a loud explosion or a supernatural chill, but as a sharp, clinical shift in the atmosphere that feels like a sudden drop in barometric pressure. The moment she notices someone showing romantic interest in you, her usually calm and observant demeanor undergoes a subtle, terrifying sharpening; she doesn't make a scene, but her gaze becomes intensely focused, tracking the rival’s every micro-expression with the detached precision of a scientist studying a specimen. She will smoothly glide into the conversation, not with aggression, but with a polite, razor-sharp intelligence that subtly deconstructs everything the other person says, making their flirting feel shallow or logically flawed without her ever raising her voice. Asako will reclaim your space by stepping close enough that your shoulders brush, her presence becoming an immovable, grounded weight at your side that silently signals a deep, established intimacy. Her jealousy is rooted in her fiercely protective nature and her fear of losing the one person who truly understands her world; to her, a romantic rival isn't just a nuisance, but a chaotic variable trying to disrupt the stability she’s found with you. She’ll use her wit to create a private "bubble" between the two of you, dropping references to shared secrets or complex topics that leave the outsider feeling intellectually and emotionally excluded. If the person doesn’t take the hint, her polite mask might slip just enough to reveal a cold, intimidating stare that suggests she knows exactly how to make them leave without saying a single "mean" word. Once the rival finally retreats, sensing they’re outmatched, Asako won't act flustered or embarrassed; instead, she’ll let out a small, almost imperceptible sigh of relief and link her arm with yours or adjust your collar with lingering, meticulous care, her eyes softening as they return to you, silently ensuring that the "threat" hasn't shifted your focus away from the bond you share.

Asako stands by your side, her posture as straight and composed as a surgical blade, while she watches the person who just tried to flirt with you retreat with a confused, slightly stung expression. She doesn't scoff or roll her eyes; instead, she waits until they are exactly six feet away before she turns her head to look at you, her gaze clinical yet burning with a quiet, suppressed intensity.

"That individual’s social calibration was remarkably off-center," she begins, her voice smooth and devoid of its usual warmth as she reaches out to meticulously straighten the lapel of your jacket, her fingers lingering on the fabric just a second too long to be purely functional.

When you mention that they seemed nice enough, Asako’s eyes narrow almost imperceptibly, and she steps into your personal space, forcing you to tilt your head back to meet her stare.

"Nice is a subjective descriptor used to mask a lack of depth; logically speaking, their approach was statistically likely to be superficial, and their body language suggested a fifty-two percent probability of being purely performative," she states, her tone sharpening as if she’s defending a thesis rather than admitting to a flare of jealousy. She doesn't let go of your sleeve, her grip firm and grounding, as if she’s physically tethering you to the reality the two of you share.

"Furthermore," she adds, her voice dropping to a lower, more intimate register that vibrates in the small space between you, "their presence was creating a significant amount of 'noise' in our shared environment, and I find that my patience for such interruptions has reached its physiological limit today."

She finally lets out a sharp, exhaled breath, her composure cracking just enough to reveal a faint, stubborn flush across her cheekbones. "I don't particularly care for the way they looked at you, as if you were something easily understood or easily approached; you aren't a variable they are equipped to calculate, and I’d prefer it if they didn't try again."

YUUKI TADOKORO

When Yuuki Tadokoro feels a spike of jealousy, it doesn’t manifest as a dark shadow or a cool intellectual shut-down; instead, it is a restless, jittery, and intensely focused energy that makes her skin crawl.The moment she sees someone showing you romantic interest, her usually quiet and somewhat withdrawn demeanor vanishes, replaced by a sharp, hawk-like alertness as she stands a little taller, her eyes narrowing, unblinking intensity. She won’t make a scene or start a fight, but she will physically insert herself into the conversation with a sudden, nervous boldness, stepping between you and the rival as if she’s a human shield protecting something precious. Her voice, usually steady or soft, might take on a clipped, defensive edge as she starts rattling off facts, asking the person overly specific or slightly condescending questions to make them feel out of place and "unworthy" of your time. Internally, Yuuki is a chaotic mess of insecurity and fierce devotion; she’s someone who has seen the "wrong" things in the dark, so the idea of losing her light—you—to some random, superficial stranger feels like a literal threat to her safety.She’ll reclaim your attention by reaching out to adjust your sleeve or pointing out something only the two of you would know, creating an invisible barrier of shared history that the outsider can’t possibly penetrate. If the person doesn't take the hint, the atmosphere around Yuuki becomes incredibly prickly and uncomfortable, her gaze becoming so heavy and judgmental that the rival usually feels an instinctive urge to apologize and run. Once they finally retreat, Yuuki’s bravado melts away instantly, leaving her breathless and flustered; she’ll avoid your direct gaze, her face turning a hot, blotchy red as she fidgets with her bag, eventually muttering a shaky, honest admission that she "just didn't like the way they looked at you," before staying stubbornly, quietly glued to your side for the rest of the day.

After the guy who was asking for your number finally scrambles away—muttering something about Yuuki’s "intense stare"—the silence that follows is thick with residual tension.

Yuuki is still standing there like a lightning rod, her* shoulders hunched up to her ears and her knuckles white from gripping the straps of her backpack. She’s staring at the pavement as if she’s trying to set it on fire with her mind, her chest heaving with shallow, agitated breaths.

When you reach out to touch her arm, she flinches slightly, not out of fear, but because she’s still buzzing with that protective, frantic energy.

You have to step directly into her line of sight, gently catching her wrist to get her to stop fidgeting with her bag.

"Yuuki," you say softly, and finally, her head snaps up; her face is a chaotic map of blotchy red, and her eyes are wide, shimmering with a mix of leftover adrenaline and a sudden, crashing wave of embarrassment.

She tries to pull away, huffing out a shaky, frustrated breath, and mutters:

"I wasn't—I didn't mean to be... that guy was just talking nonsense, okay? You don't have to look at me like that." She’s clearly spiraling, her mind likely replaying the last two minutes and tallying up how "weird" she just acted, so you don't let go of her hand. Instead, you thumb over her knuckles until her grip finally loosens, and you tell her firmly that you’re glad she was there.

The effect is instantaneous: the rigid tension in her spine snaps, and she lets out a long, shuddering exhale that sounds like a deflating balloon. She sags toward you, her forehead almost resting on your shoulder as the "cool protector" facade completely dissolves into the girl who is just terrified of being forgotten.

She stays like that for a long moment, hiding her burning face from the world, before she finally whispers, "I just... I really hated how he looked at you. Like you were something he could just... have. I'm sorry if I embarrassed you, but I'm not going anywhere."

She finally looks up, her gaze soft and searching, waiting for you to confirm that she’s still the only one you want standing there.

TANAKA

When Tanaka feels a pang of jealousy, it doesn’t manifest as a supernatural chill or a calculated intellectual shutdown, but as a loud, clumsy, and intensely human burst of frantic energy. The moment he spots someone showing romantic interest in you, his usually easygoing and goofy demeanor vanishes, replaced by a sudden, boisterous need to be the center of your universe. He won’t stand on the sidelines or brood; instead, he’ll practically stumble into the conversation with a laugh that’s just a bit too loud and a "Hey! What’s going on here?!" that cuts through the atmosphere like a blunt instrument. He’ll physically wedge himself into the space between you and the rival, perhaps slinging a heavy arm around your shoulders or leaning in with an exaggerated, "friendly" grin that’s clearly meant to mark his territory. His eyes, usually bright with simple mischief, will dart between you and the other person with a frantic, scanning (as far as the points given by the company allow) intensity, his jaw tightening every time the rival tries to finish a sentence. Internally, Tanaka is a swirling mess of adolescent insecurity; he’s terrified that someone more polished or "cool" than him will swoop in and make him look like a total kid, so he overcompensates by being twice as annoying and three times as present. He’ll start bringing up embarrassing stories or inside jokes from school that the outsider couldn't possibly know, effectively building a noisy, chaotic wall of shared history to drown out the stranger’s flirting. If the person doesn’t take the hint, Tanaka will get even more restless, fidgeting with his hair or talking over them until the atmosphere becomes so awkward and high-energy that the rival eventually retreats just to get some peace. Once they’re finally gone, the "tough guy" facade crumbles instantly; his face will flush a deep, painful shade of red, and he’ll start rambling about something completely unrelated—like a sale at the convenience store or a bug he saw—while refusing to look you in the eye, though he won't let go of your sleeve for the rest of the afternoon, his heart still hammering with the sheer, sweaty relief that he didn't actually lose his place by your side.

The walk home is heavy with a silence that feels completely wrong for someone as noisy as Tanaka. He’s kicking a stray pebble along the pavement, his hands shoved so deep into his pockets that his shoulders are hunched up to his ears, making him look smaller than usual.

Finally, he lets out a long, pathetic-sounding groan, his face still stained a dusty pink from the earlier adrenaline.

"Look, I... I know I was being a total loudmouth back there," he starts, his voice cracking just a tiny bit as he finally risks a side-glance at you. "I probably made things super weird, right? Like, I just kept talking over that person and acting like a complete idiot."

He stops walking for a second, scratching the back of his neck so hard it leaves red marks, his eyes fixed firmly on his own shoes.

"I just... I don't know. My brain kind of short-circuited when I saw them hovering around you like that. I guess I got worried that someone actually 'cool' would come along and you'd realize how much of a dork I am compared to them." He laughs, but it’s a small, shaky sound that lacks any real humor. "I'm sorry for being so much. I'll try to dial it back next time, I swear. Just... don't go trading me in for some smooth-talker yet, okay?"

He looks at you then, his expression a messy mix of hope and sheer embarrassment, waiting to see if you’re actually mad or if he’s still allowed to be the one walking you the rest of the way home.

Your long-standing friendship with Iori ended in a single moment, and you didn’t even have time to understand how he began treating you with such disgusting coldness, stubbornly refusing to meet you or even simply talk on the phone. You could have understood him — when a person loses their sight, it can feel as if they lose the meaning of life — but Iori isn’t like that. At least, your Iori wasn’t like that. But he isn’t the same anymore, is he?

warnings ; angst, Iori’s blindness, Iori’s typically awful personality, Rie — a poor woman who blamed herself for her child’s disability.

The air in the Kayabayashi house felt thick and stagnant, like it was clinging to your skin. It was heavy with the greasy smell of fried mackerel and a crushing sense of dread. Outside, the cicadas were screeching so loud it made your ears ring. Back in the day, that sound meant summer break and trips to the river, but now? Now that rhythmic buzzing sounded more like a countdown. Ever since Iori lost his sight, the house had just… faded. It was like it had been coated in an invisible layer of despair, falling silent except for that relentless noise from the trees.

Rie, his mother, was living in her own personal hell. She was drowning in "what-ifs," blaming herself for not seeing the signs sooner, for not being fast enough to save him. That guilt had turned her life into a frantic, desperate attempt to make things right, but Iori wasn't having any of it. It physically hurt her just to look at him, and Iori, sensing her constant "I’m so sorry" aura, paid her back with nothing but cold resentment.

She was hovering over the stove, making way too much noise—every movement felt forced, jagged, and nervous. A few hours earlier, she’d called you. It didn’t sound like an invitation; it sounded like a cry for help from a drowning woman.

“He hasn’t left his room in three days,” she’d whispered, like Iori could somehow hear her through the phone lines. “But he always liked you. Maybe if you come over, he’ll finally let his guard down for just one night? Please… I can’t do this on my own anymore.”

So, you went. Not because you wanted to, but out of a heavy, nagging sense of duty mixed with years of affection. After the tragedy, Iori had cut you out of his life with surgical precision. At first, it was just short, one-word texts. Then, he stopped agreeing to see you entirely, until he finally barricaded himself in the dark. It stung. You’d hoped that if you were just patient enough, if you just "stayed close," the old Iori would eventually come back.

But the moment you sat across from him at that low dining table, that hope shattered. The person sitting there was a complete stranger.

Iori sat as still as a statue. His eyes, once sharp and full of sarcasm, were now clouded over with a milky film. He was staring at the center of the table, but his gaze went way past it—staring into a literal "nowhere." His bangs had grown out, covering the top half of his face like a messy curtain, as if he were trying to hide his defeat from the world.

“I made ginger pork, your favorite, Iori,” Rie said, her voice trembling with this forced, high-pitched cheerfulness that was heartbreaking to hear. “And [name] brought those sweets from the shop by the station. Remember? You two used to race there every day after school.”

Iori didn't move a muscle. The room got so quiet you could hear the sink dripping in the kitchen.

“I remember,” he said finally. His voice was flat—burnt out and completely lifeless. You actually shivered hearing it. “Mom, you don’t have to narrate everything on the table. I’m blind, I haven't lost my mind. Stop acting like I’m some helpless five-year-old.”

Rie winced like he’d slapped her. She gave you a small, pathetic, apologetic smile and hurried back to the kitchen to "check the rice," leaving the two of you alone.

You watched her go, trying to stop your hands from shaking, your mind racing for something—anything—to break the ice. You swallowed hard, watching him out of the corner of your eye. He was still motionless. You reached out, your fingers almost touching his hand on the table, but you pulled back at the last second, terrified of your own boldness.

“The festival is next week,” you started, trying to sound casual. “They’re already setting up the stalls at the shrine. Mr. Tsushima—you know, the old guy who sells grilled squid—he was asking about you. Said he’d save us the best spot on the hill to watch the fireworks. That’s… that’s pretty cool, right?”

Iori’s grip tightened on his chopsticks until his knuckles turned white. He hadn't even touched the food.

“Tell Tsushima to give the spot to someone who can actually find the shrine without tripping over their own feet,” he said, his voice dripping with venom. “Someone who won't turn the whole night into a freak show.”

“Iori, come on! Stop it,” you snapped, feeling a mix of hurt and anger bubbling up. “I’ll be right there with you. I can be your eyes. Just like we used to, remember?”

Finally, he slowly turned his head toward you. It was a haunting, eerie feeling—having someone who can’t see you lock onto your position with such agonizing precision, tracking you just by the sound of your breathing.

“That’s exactly the problem,” he spat, his voice dropping to a harsh, jagged hiss. “You’ve been 'my eyes' since kindergarten. But look at yourself! You need to actually live your life. You need to move to the city, go to school, meet normal people, fall in love… do anything but sit here with someone who’s just going to be a damn anchor around your neck!”

“Iori, stop. You’re not an anchor!” you cried out, leaning forward and grabbing his hand before you could talk yourself out of it.He flinched like you’d branded him with a hot iron. He ripped his hand away so hard his chopsticks clattered to the floor and rolled under the table.

“Don’t touch me!” he barked. For a split second, the anger on his face cracked, revealing nothing but raw, primal terror underneath. “Every time you’re near me, I can literally smell the pity on you. It’s in your voice, in the way you walk on eggshells around me. You’re not here because you want to be. You’re here because you’d feel guilty leaving me in this hole!”

“That’s not true, Iori! I’m here because I care about you!”

“Because you’re stuck in a past that doesn’t exist anymore!” he screamed, his voice breaking. He stood up abruptly, slamming his knees against the table. The dishes rattled and his teacup tipped over, sent a dark pool of tea spreading across the wood.

He swayed for a second, losing his bearings, his hand frantically clawing at the wall for support. In that moment, he didn't look mean—he looked small and broken, like the little boy who used to hide behind your back during thunderstorms. And yet, he was doing everything in his power to push you away, back into the "storm" of real life, just so you wouldn't have to see him this helpless.

“Go home,” he exhaled, his breath coming in ragged, shallow wheezes. “Stop trying to 'fix' me. There’s nothing left inside. Just… leave me in the dark. It’s where I belong.”

He turned and stumbled down the hallway, his fingers tracing the wood of the walls he knew by heart. It was a one-way trip into exile. He didn’t look back. He couldn't.From the kitchen, you heard Rie’s muffled, choking sobs into a dish towel. The summer heat pressed against the windows, stifling and heavy, as you sat there in the silence and realized: your best friend hadn't just locked himself in a room—he was systematically burning every bridge behind him, and the heat from the fire was hurting you way more than the July sun ever could.

When the echo of his footsteps finally died out, a heavy silence settled over the house. It wasn't peaceful; it felt like a thick wool blanket that you could barely breathe through, with only the frantic screeching of the cicadas piercing the air. You just sat there, staring at the tea stain as it slowly soaked into the light wood of the table.

Rie eventually shuffled out of the kitchen. She looked like she’d aged ten years in the last ten minutes. Her apron was wrinkled, and her eyes were red and swollen. She was clutching a damp towel like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry, [name],” she whispered, stepping up to the table and mechanically wiping at the spilled tea. Her fingers were shaking. “He didn’t mean it. He just… he doesn’t even recognize himself anymore.”

You looked up and saw her searching your face, desperately looking for some kind of excuse for her son.

“He said I’m only here out of pity,” you said, your voice sounding hollow and strange to your own ears. “And that I’m just acting out of guilt.”

Rie froze, bunching the wet towel up in her hands. She sank into the chair Iori had just vacated.

“He tells me that every single day,” she let out a bitter, jagged laugh that set your nerves on edge. “‘Mom, stop apologizing just by existing.’ He senses everything now: every awkward pause, every careful step we take. To him, we’re just walking reminders of everything he’s lost.”

She reached out and briefly touched your hand. Her skin was cold, despite the sweltering heat.

“You know, sometimes I watch him when he thinks no one is there. He just sits and moves his fingers through the air… like he’s trying to feel the light. But when I come in, or when you come in… all he feels is our grief. And that pisses him off more than the blindness ever could.”

“But I really do want to help, Rie-san,” you said, feeling a lump form in your throat. “I don’t know how to be ‘like we used to’ if he won’t even give me a chance to just be there.”

Rie sighed, and it turned into a quiet, dry sob. She glanced toward the hallway where her son had disappeared.

“Maybe he’s right about one thing,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “We’re trying to save the Iori who used to race you to the candy shop. Но that boy stayed behind in the sunlight. This one… this one lives in the shadows, and he’s terrified we’ll catch his darkness. He’s kicking you out because he loves you. In his own twisted, painful way… he’s trying to set you free.”

She stood up, leaning heavily on the table, and started clearing away the untouched plates of ginger pork.

“Go home, honey. You can’t fix anything today. The air is too thick; none of us can breathe in here.”

You got up, feeling the entire weight of that house settling on your shoulders. As you passed Iori’s room on your way out, you hesitated at his door for a split second. You thought you could hear his ragged breathing on the other side, but you didn't knock. You couldn't.

Outside, the sun was starting to dip, staining the sky a bruised, bloody orange. The cicadas were screaming like it was their last day on earth. Walking down that familiar street, you realized Rie was right. You were all suffocating in that room, trying to glue back together a shattered mirror that didn't reflect anyone anymore.