#yahafuta

• Futakuchi has never had any real issues with depression or anxiety, but after a few months of helping Shirabu and Yahaba cope he ironically finds himself getting way more stressed out than usual • He knows that talking about your emotions is “the key to a healthy relationship and personal mental health” but he’s terrified to bring this up to Yahaba and Shirabu • He knows damn well that they’ll blame themselves for it and that’s the last thing he wants, but he also doesn’t want to bottle up this newly found issue and keep it secret from them (especially since not that long ago he scolded both of them for doing just that and insisted that they should all bring problems to each other right away instead of letting them fester) • As he’s lying there thinking about how to talk to them without making it seem like he blames them, his thoughts begin to wander • After a few minutes of not thinking of anything in particular he starts to wonder if it would be terribly painful if he were to drag a blade across his skin • It’s a detached, idle thought, and he’s almost in a trance as he sits up and grabs the pair of scissors from his desk • He stares at them, not really feeling anything other than a morbid sort of curiosity, and then suddenly snaps out of it • He literally s c r e a m s when he realizes what he was just thinking and what he almost did, and throws the scissors across the room • Shirabu and Yahaba come running in to find him curled up in the corner sobbing and shaking • After lots of snuggles and a long talk, all three of them are now signed up to see Shirabu’s therapist, in one-on-one sessions once a week and in a group session once a month

Ennoshita suggests talking to it. Peaceably, he adds, because they’ve known each other for a while now. “Kindly fuck off,” Futakuchi mutters into his empty apartment. He half expects the lights to dim or a bulb to shatter in response. Nothing happens. Futakuchi walks to the door and opens it, sweeps an arm in a polite ‘after you’ gesture, and says, “There’s an entire complex out there. See? Lots of other people to bother who aren’t working to meet a freaking deadline. Clap once if you just left.”  He waits for a sign. A pale, long-haired woman to appear, a real life jump scare to pop up and give him a heart attack. He earns a baffled look from a passing neighbor. There’s not much else for it then, except when he pauses before his bathroom mirror an hour later he recalls the story of Bloody Mary. How did it go? Chant her name three times and she’ll appear? It’s no Bloody Mary that he wants to summon, and he doesn’t even know this ghost’s name, but if the trick works maybe he’ll get a chance to tell it to go away properly. And if it doesn’t work, well. He’ll only lose a little dignity in the privacy of his own home. Determined, Futakuchi sets both hands on the rim of the sink basin, looks his reflection straight in the eyes and chants, “Nuisance, Nuisance, Nuisance!” Behind him, the temperature suddenly plummets. “That’s not my name.” “Holy shit,” Futakuchi curses, spinning around. If Futakuchi wore glasses this would be the comedic moment where he takes them off and tries to wipe away the sight of the smudge that’s hovering near the towel rack, but he doesn’t, so he rubs his eyes instead. The smudge remains. When he blinks again the figure stutters into a more solid form, a flicker of a human-shaped light brown haired something, but in the next moment the vision is gone, replaced by an ambiguous, fuzzy presence. “Are you haunting me?” Futakuchi demands. The ghost scoffs. Scoffs, and then disappears not in a puff of smoke or some other cool cg spectacle, but simply vanishes, leaving Futakuchi gawking in his bathroom before he stomps out to see it blinking back into existence on his sofa. A glowy, oblong shape taking a seat like it’s something it does every day. “God dammit. Don’t think I won’t hire an exorcist and bring him in here.” “Don’t bother. I’m only here because of this,” Nuisance announces, moving like a glitchy stop motion animation toward Futakuchi’s music set-up. Which is to say, his laptop, a small pair of portable speakers, and a borrowed soundboard that still looks like a panel from an alien spacecraft with how many buttons it has and little he knows what to do with them.  “What, petty theft? Hate to break it to you, but ghosts can’t touch anything so that’s a pretty lame threat.” “The music, you… Whatever you’re making, it sounds terrible.” “You don’t know what I’m making.” “I’ve been watching and it sounds terrible. You clearly don’t know how to use any of this stuff.” “First of all: creepy. Second of all, you think you can do so much better?” In answer, the ghost reaches for a switch. Its finger phases through the soundboard. The speakers emit an awful nails-on-a-chalkboard screech that makes Futakuchi’s teeth grind.  “Wow,” he says. “Because that was such a wonderful addition.” The ghost gives a frustrated look at its own hand before whirling on Futakuchi. “Hit that switch right there.” “Hit it?” “Push the lever up – you knew what I meant.” What an attitude for a dead thing. Futakuchi heaves a sigh and slides the switch up until Nuisance says stop. The instructions keep coming. The ghost quite literally hovers over Futakuchi’s shoulder while telling him what to do, which buttons to push, what sounds to edit away or enhance. It’s almost feels like a collaborative efforts until Futakuchi remembers that he’s the only one literally sweating over a laptop, bossed around by a know-it-all ghost that makes a passing comment about producing like it’s a dead dream with a voice that sounds like it’s eating gravel. “Now play it again,” it demands. “I don’t see how a few little changes like that will magically make anything better –“ Nuisance lunges for the laptop in a streak of ghostly residue like taillight caught in long exposure, trailing comet-like behind it. It loses shape, melting into wispy things that reform a second later and righteously jabs an entire arm straight through Futakuchi’s laptop. Twice. A fission of static scrolls down the screen; the mouse cursor turns into the pinwheel of death. The lights even begin to flicker above, shadows playing on the wall like some dripping macabre puppet show, and it’s all so horrifyingly cliché that Futakuchi rushes to hit play just to make it stop.  Music begins to pour from the speakers as the lights give a final flicker. That scratchy note which plagued Futakuchi’s earlier recording is now mysteriously gone and, even more baffling; the track isn’t total shit anymore. The melody is cleaner, the bass less muddled, extraneous parts trimmed away to reveal a halfway decent result. “You’re welcome,” Nuisance says afterwards while Futakuchi is too busy frowning into the silence to admit thankful defeat. “And my name is Yahaba.” “You do know that you’re dead, don’t you?” Futakuchi blurts out. Yahaba graces him with a look. A real look, that shapelessness shifting into concrete features; the face of a young man with eyes as light brown as his hair, lips downturned, brow furrowed, gore dribbling down one side of his face hinting at a gruesome death that Futakuchi didn’t even want to know about. Futakuchi shrinks back, and then heads toward the couch. “Fine. Fine, whatever, yay we’re done. I’m turning on the fan to celebrate.” So he does, flopping onto the couch with an ugly squelch of plastic. After a long moment Yahaba joins him, the fan blowing noisy between them, sitting all silent and cold until he isn’t. “If anyone ever wants to raise the dead,” he says, “I’ll just refer your original song to them.” “Ha fucking ha,” Futakuchi bites back.