It was about sixteen years ago when the rain had just begun to fall, gentle at first, then quickly turning to a soft, steady drizzle that coated the streets in a silver sheen. Hasegawa stood under the awning of Daichi's apartment building, his hair damp, a worried frown on his youthful face.
The security guard at the front counter gave him a knowing look, eyes creased with concern.
"You're here for Morikita-kun again?" the guard asked, his voice gruff but not unkind.
Hasegawa nodded quickly. "Yeah. Is he in?"
The guard scratched his head. "He ran out a few hours ago. Didn't look good, boy. Hair a mess, didn't even have his jacket on. Face pale, eyes red like he'd been crying or fighting or both." He gave Hasegawa a wary glance. "Something happened to him?"
Hasegawa's heart clenched. Without a word, he turned on his heel, his sneakers splashing through shallow puddles as he hurried down the street.
He searched. Through the narrow alleys lined with small shops, around the convenience store Daichi often visited, past the familiar corners where they sometimes hung out. Each turn, each glance, brought no sign of Daichi. The rain soaked through his shirt, cool against his skin, but he barely noticed.
By late afternoon, the sky was a sullen gray and the air sharp with the smell of wet earth. Hasegawa reached the small neighborhood park, eyes sweeping over the drenched swings and puddled sandpit.
And there, under the old cement slide in the corner, where the shadow was deepest, he saw a small figure. Sandy blond hair clung damply to a hunched head, arms wrapped tightly around drawn-up knees.
"Senpai…?" Hasegawa's voice trembled. He stepped closer, careful not to startle him.
The figure stirred. Slowly, Daichi lifted his face, and Hasegawa's breath caught. His friend's cheeks were streaked with rain and tears, his eyes swollen, his lips trembling in a way Hasegawa had never seen.
"What happened? Senpai, what's wrong?"
But as he knelt beside him, Daichi shoved at his chest, his voice breaking. "Leave me alone."
"Senpai—"
"I said leave me—!"
Daichi scrambled up, running away. But after a few steps, he slipped on the wet grass. His foot caught, and he stumbled forward, but Hasegawa was quicker, catching him around the shoulders. The moment Daichi collapsed into him, something inside him shattered—the blonde hair sobbed, loud, raw, unfiltered, burying his face into Hasegawa's chest.
Hasegawa held on, arms tight, his own eyes stinging. He didn't ask again. He just stayed there, feeling Daichi's thin frame shake against him, the rain falling heavier around them, washing the world into a muted blur.
When the sobs finally softened, when the weight in his arms became heavier with exhaustion rather than grief, Hasegawa helped Daichi up and quietly led him home.
Still, he asked nothing.
Inside the apartment, the air was thick, suffocating. The living room was a mess—the small couch knocked over, cushions strewn, the carpet rumpled. But what stopped Hasegawa cold was a pale smear across the floor. His stomach twisted. He quickly looked away, swallowing hard.
Semen. No doubt…
***
"Attention passengers: the next stop is Takaida Station."
The tinny voice pulled Hasegawa back to the present. He blinked, his reflection faint in the train window, the flashback still heavy in his chest.
The air inside the train coach was dense with the faint scent of metal, fabric, and tired bodies. Overhead lights buzzed softly, casting a pale glow on rows of passengers swaying gently with the rhythm of the tracks. A few commuters sat slouched in their seats, eyes glued to dim phone screens or half-lidded in drowsy silence, while others stood gripping the hanging straps, their faces blank, lost in their own drifting thoughts.
Beside him, Daichi stirred slightly, shifting his weight as the train slowed.
Hasegawa drew a quiet breath, resolve tightening in his chest. This time, he told himself, it wouldn't be like the past. So, when the doors slid open, he reached out without hesitation, grabbing Daichi's hand.
"What the— hey, let go," Daichi hissed under his breath, glancing sharply at their linked hands. His tone was low, tight, and annoyed, but carefully controlled so the surrounding passengers wouldn't turn to look.
Hasegawa ignored him, pulling him forward, hurriedly stepping off the train and onto the platform.
"Oi, let go," Daichi muttered again, trying to tug his hand free as they approached the turnstiles. But Hasegawa, unfazed, scanned his pass card with one hand while still holding Daichi's with the other, forcing the dark-haired man to fumble and scan his card right after.
Outside the station, the air was cool and damp, carrying the faint scent of wet pavement and drifting car exhaust. Streetlights glowed softly, casting long, shimmering reflections across puddles scattered along the sidewalk. The muted hum of the city pulsed around them—quiet conversations, the distant rush of traffic, the soft rustle of leaves stirred by a passing breeze—while people slipped by in small clusters, umbrellas tucked under arms or bags slung over shoulders, their footsteps blending into the restless evening.
"Hey, people are staring," Daichi muttered sharply, yanking at his hand. "Don't make a scene in public. Just tell me where we're going already—"
But Hasegawa stayed silent, his grip wasn't loosening.