Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Langa: Maybe you should mind your own fucking business.

Reki: Well, fuck you too, Langa.

Staring down at his phone, Langa forced his breathing to steady, even as the painful ringing in his ears grew louder and louder. He tried, vainly, to think of something to say, even going so far as to mindlessly type, only to delete it all a second later. Until absolutely nothing was filtering into his thoughts, as if the passage that allowed him to think at all had narrowed and closed, leaving him numb and helpless.

Why would his mother have said anything to Reki? Why would she have opened a door that he was so desperately trying to hold closed? He didn't want to revisit that time, and he definitely didn't want Reki to get dragged into it. Moving to Okinawa, leaving everything behind, it'd put a very clear, concise line between what was and his current life. He didn't want the two to be mixed together—he didn't want his past to drag down what he'd built since, no matter how little that was. And he definitely didn't want Reki to know anything about any of it. There was no point, not when Langa had no interest in going back. Besides, if Reki found out, if he knew…

He couldn't know—no one that didn't already know ever needed to know.

He couldn't bear it.

Yet, where did that leave him? Reki knew something and had been trying to get Langa to talk since he'd arrived in Canada. His mother had backed him into a corner now. Texting Reki… If he did, Reki would want him to explain. Somehow, Langa was certain he wouldn't let it slide this time.

Why couldn't he just let it slide?

Please?

"Langa?" Taking in a quick breath, Langa glanced up from where he was sitting in his bed, to his bedroom door. It was Patrice on the other side, her soft voice carrying only far enough to be heard.

"What?" Langa asked quickly, hoping he didn't sound too short or startled.

"Would you like to go with me, to gather those bones in the back woods?" she asked, making no attempt to try and push her way inside. Which was a relief.

"Um, sure," Langa choked out. "I'll be down in a minute."

"Okay."

Dropping his attention back to his phone, Langa reread his and Reki's last messages to one another, distress thrumming weakly behind the growing numbness. He should say something—needed to. He'd been nasty and Reki hadn't deserved that, but…

He couldn't… face it. And everything was fogging over, until his insides were so stuffed that his entire body felt almost nonexistent. Like all he could do—all he could manage—was to physically exist. Anything else was… beyond him.

Gently, he placed his phone face-down on the bed, staring at it only a moment longer before he stood and pushed himself to the door. Everything inside him had been thinned—suffocated to the very edges—and so he drew himself down the hall and then down the stairs in silence, barely registering his own footfalls as he met Patrice at the door. Habit, it carried him through the process of slipping on his shoes and reaching for his fall jacket, which was hanging on the hook in the entry.

Did Patrice look concerned as she watched him? He didn't know—didn't look at her enough to get a clear idea.

He wanted to care—he wanted to do better at hiding everything he wasn't properly feeling.

But why would his mother tell Reki anything? Why would she ruin everything good he'd managed to find since…?

It was a chilly day, winter ever on the cusp, but still at bay. The sun shone occasionally through the thick cloud cover, but mostly the day was gray. Trailing behind Patrice, Langa didn't look up to see if she had spared him any looks, his attention weighed down upon the backs of her thick, booted heels. They moved around the front of the house, to a drive that branched off from the circle at the front and led down the bank of the yard. Through a path lined with pine trees up each side, before opening onto a grassy flat, upon which sat two buildings.

The smaller, on the right, was the storage shed, where Luis generally kept all his odds and ends for his projects and events. While on the left was an old, large, two-story barn. It'd been refurbished some time before—when Langa had been just a kid. Once red and dilapidated, it was now entirely fixed-up and painted a dark blue with white trim. While it might have once housed animals, to Langa's knowledge, his grandparents had never used it in that fashion. Once again, it was a storage space, though set up more to meet Nana's needs than anyone else's.

It was in through the side door of the barn that Patrice led them, which had already been partway open. The lights were on as well, details Langa only realized were significant when Patrice started talking to someone.

"I was just looking for a wheelbarrow," Patrice was saying, as Langa attempted to focus in on the conversation. A conversation between Patrice and Nana, who was walking down between the bays and wiping her hands on a grease-stained rag.

It was Nana's workshop, so to speak. She'd made her living as a mechanic, first with her own father, then as the owner of the garage she'd inherited. To Langa's knowledge, it'd been a business that had always struggled, even for a majority of his Nana's career. Until she'd finally started making a name for herself as a professional restorer, which had eventually started bringing in considerable money. Enough for their house and property, and for her to keep the plethora of cars lined up and down the barn, some of them on ground level, others elevated above on lifts.

While Langa's father had worked with Nana in the garage during the second half of Langa's life, Langa himself hadn't absorbed much in the way of car knowledge. Obviously, he knew how to drive—both automatic and stick—but he couldn't tell anyone much about his Nana's collection. He knew most of her cars were old, expensive, and collectable. Otherwise…

"To go gather your dead animal parts?" Nana asked, sounding none too impressed by the idea.

Not that Patrice was dissuaded. "Yes!" she said, in the soft way she could be excited. "Langa has agreed to help me."

Nana cast him quick look, her severe countenance ever in place. It was a look that Langa only thought to return once she'd been staring at him a bit too long, which probably wasn't to his benefit, but his brain felt like it was working at half speed.

"Well, it'll be good for him to finally get out of the house," she said, as she glanced back to Patrice. "I think the wheelbarrow is in the side room. Make sure to wear gloves."

"Of course, Nana," Patrice said, before she turned and made her way between two of the car bays, toward a door placed in the wall on the other side. Langa followed, vaguely aware of the way Nana stared at his back, but too exhausted to do anything about it. He felt almost sick again, and a little bit weak—probably because he hadn't been eating right for days.

They did find the wheelbarrow and some work gloves in the tool room, which Patrice then pushed out another door at the back side of the barn. Before them was a shallow yard, beyond which stretched the woods. The shadows of the pine trees kept everything shrouded as they headed in, the cloudy day made only darker as they passed into the shade.

"We shouldn't have to go too far," Patrice assured, ever walking ahead. "I don't think anyway."

Langa didn't reply, more focused on his own feet as he stepped across the needle-littered forest floor. One thought—like a single, slow bubble—popped into his head.

Was Reki… mad at him?

It was a question that inspired more of these gradual concerns, which struggled upward like used bottles that had been dropped off the side of a boat, left to bob uselessly at the surface. Aimless. Empty.

Of course Reki was mad at him, he figured. They rarely fought about anything, but, naturally, when they finally did, it would be Langa's fault. Just as it had been during Adam's tournament, when they'd stopped being friends altogether. Reki blamed himself some for that, but Langa had—over the years—come to terms with his own thoughtlessness during the situation. He didn't mean to be inconsiderate, and Reki knew that now, but even so…

That self-awareness didn't justify his nastiness earlier that day. Reki had only been worried. Yet, how Langa wished people would quit worrying. He didn't want that kind of attention—didn't want the questions or the pitying looks or…

Ahead of him, Patrice had come to a stop, her finger tapping lightly at her chin. "I thought it was right around here," she said softly, as she slowly looked around through the thick trees. Beyond their bows, the sun had broken through the clouds and was momentarily slotting past the branches, igniting the mossy swaths of ground at their feet. Only quickly, before the cascading light was once again cut away, leaving them in the misty, damp shade.

"Maybe something dragged it off?" Patrice murmured. "I suppose that's possible." She turned suddenly back to Langa, big eyes blinking only once as he pulled his gaze from the ground to look at her. "Perhaps we should split up and look? It can't be far."

"Sure," Langa agreed quietly.

"We could exchange phone numbers," she continued quickly. "And text one another when we find it?"

Langa placed his hand atop his pocket. Oh, right.

"I left my phone back at the house," he said.

"Oh…" Patrice dropped her gaze to the ground. "That's okay. I'm certain it's nearby—we can meet back here, if we find it, and then go."

Langa nodded, while Patrice left the wheelbarrow as a means of marking their meeting location. They knew the property and the woods, so getting lost wasn't much of a threat. Yet, even so, Patrice loitered in place, watching him with her head slightly cocked. So Langa yanked his gaze away and started off into the trees going west, thankful when he knew he was far enough away that she couldn't see him anymore.

If he and Reki were fighting, then would they end up in the same place they had been before? Because of the tournament? It was an idea that left Langa flashing with nausea, what with him being so weak to the feeling as it was. He couldn't stomach it, the idea of him and Reki falling out. But then, Reki had been asking for days what was wrong, questions Langa had been stubbornly refusing to answer. And then there'd been the pictures.

His stomach flipped all over again, doubling down on the queasiness. He never should have asked Reki for those pictures, or asked to look at the original that had started it all. Reki must think him so… wrong, to want that from him. Not because he was gay—Langa had grappled with that reality a long time ago—but because they were friends and Langa…

Did Reki think poorly of him as a result? He acted like it was fine, but Reki always acted like everything was fine. Add that on top of Langa's avoidance and coinciding clinginess, and then his nastiness. He wouldn't blame Reki if he didn't want to talk to him at all anymore, or even…

What would he think if he found out the truth?

Tripping over a root, Langa stumbled, barely catching his balance in time to avoid a face full of pine needles. Reaching out, he placed a shaky hand upon a nearby tree, balancing himself as he blinked back at the dizziness ever-present in his head. Before he forced himself to take a steadying breath and push onward.

Reki couldn't know. He'd never look at Langa the same way again. Langa knew that from experience. His whole family, they…

No, he didn't want to think about that. He didn't want to go back.

Don't make him go back.

A chilly breeze cutting across his face drew his attention back to the real world, where he found himself on the edge of the wood. Before him was a flat, shallow plain, the brown, autumn-worn grass wavering.

Of course he recognized this place—he'd spent dozens of afternoons with his father, hiking through these woods. Exploring, plotting everything out.

He knew this place well. So well it scared him.

Pushing off out of the trees, he slowly wandered his way through the grass, sneakers catching, his open jacket flapping around his body.

He didn't want Reki to be angry with him, or for their friendship to be over, yet, even as he claimed such things, he couldn't bring himself to… care. He did care, of course, but it was so hard, in those moments, to feel… anything.

He hated it.

He hated every minute.

And he hated himself for it.

Eventually, the grassy plain came to a severe, slicing end. He stopped, the toes of his shoes only a hair's breadth off the diving cliff edge. Sharp and unforgiving, it cut straight down, precariously steep and littered with boulders below, which gradually blended into the gravelly ground leading into the forest beyond. While out ahead of him were the mountains, jagged and foggy and painted with trees, their snowy peaks spiking up into the heavy clouds. Mist drifted between them, as ever-present as the spiraling breeze.

Langa didn't pay much attention to the view, however, his gaze instead drifting to the rocks below.

He'd taken on cliffs and their terrors before—snowboarding, and skating at "S." When he'd raced Adam that last time, and that bridge had cracked underneath him, he could have fallen to his death. Would have, had he not pulled himself free of that emptiness.

Around him, the falling snow had gotten more severe, and yet, he couldn't bring himself to register the change. It was all a blur. He couldn't hear anything—couldn't see anything. Couldn't feel his own heart beating, even as his hand gripped tight at his chest.

Just like when he'd been dragged into that place with Adam—the "zone," or whatever they'd all called it. His "S" friends, they hadn't seemed to realize what a terrifying mindset it was to be in—they'd all thought it was the mark of him being some kind of great athlete. They didn't know the truth—hadn't lived through it the way he had.

When had he last felt anything? A single emotion? Everything was this fuzzy haze, just like the snow fluttering down upon the mountains. Blinding him to everything—to the cliff edge, and the trees and rocks, and the view beyond it all.

What was the point? If this joyless emptiness was what his life had become, then…

No, there had to be more to it. There had to be something else that could…

But the air, it was knocked out of him, was rushing past him, and the white, it was—

Everywhere.

Was he flying? Or falling?

Did this mean… he was gonna die?

Closing his eyes, Langa reached up and gripped at his chest, his other hand coming up to his face. Shoving the sleeves of his jacket up past the edge of the yellow sweatshirt, he brought it to his nose and took in a deep breath. The familiar scent of Reki was starting to fade, getting overtaken by his own. Which he'd known would happen, but even so, just having the article of clothing with him was something. Even if Reki was mad at him, or if their friendship was broken, at least he had the evidence that it'd happened at all. That he hadn't dreamed his move to Okinawa—that he hadn't been living in an empty fog the entire time, since his father had died.

He'd started feeling things again—good things. So many fun and wonderful things. So why would his mother have told Reki anything? Have dragged his best friend into it?

Langa didn't want to go back. And he didn't want Reki to know…

If he found out—

"LANGA!"

Eyes snapping wide, Langa took in a sharp breath and whipped his head around over his shoulder, the sheer intensity of the panic in the voice behind him momentarily startling him out of the numbness—like he'd only quickly been able to pull his head up above water.

"Get away from there right now!" his Nana ordered, the panic still ringing in the high pitch of her voice. Reflected, too, in the pale tightness of her expression and the stiffness of her posture as she stood back at the edge of the trees.

Where was he?

Oh, right, the cliff.

… Fuck.

He turned around fully. "Nana, I wasn't—"

"I said get away from there!" she practically shrieked, which had his insides jolting once again. The sound of his typically level and collected grandmother in such a state was enough to jerk him into action. She had her hand held out toward him, so he shuffled through the grass to meet her, eyes wide and his insides twisting.

"Nana, I wasn't doing anything," he said weakly, as he reached her. At which point she grabbed him by the arm, her hold so tight in pinched. He didn't dare voice any objections, however, not with the horror and fear still plastered across her face.

"Why are you out here?" she snapped, her voice caught somewhere between anger and distress.

"I… just walked out here," Langa said honestly. "But I wasn't going to do anything, I promise."

His assurances did little in quelling her upset. Still holding tight to his arm, she pursed her lips, her breath shaky, before she swiftly turned and headed back off into the woods, dragging Langa along at her side.

All the while, the numbness otherwise pervading Langa's person was slowly shaking loose. But not in a good way—not in a way he would have preferred. More akin to someone taking a jackhammer to his insides and drilling through hardened skin, he felt any and all defenses chipping violently away, leaving his heart clattering inside his chest like a bird trapped in a cage.

He knew his family thought about it—that every time they so much as looked at him, they thought about it. Like this rain cloud over his head that he'd never be rid of, it haunted every step he took.

This was why he didn't want Reki to know. If he found out—

"Did you find it?" Patrice's airy voice drifted through the trees, before she appeared from around a large tree, gliding like some kind of ethereal rebel fairy.

Nana spared her only a quick look, before saying, "We're going back to the house. Now." She never stopped, continuing to pull Langa along, held ever-close. It was clear from her tone that when she said they were going back to the house, she meant all of them. Which had Patrice looking only slightly curious as she trailed after, silent as she stared at their backs.

"Nana," Langa tried again, voice soft and somewhat shaky. "I'm sorry…" Sorry for dredging this up, for being a source of concern in the first place. And maybe for everything else too—his moodiness, his lack of appetite, his isolated attitude. He was sorry, but he also didn't know what to do about it.

Just like with Reki.

All he knew for certain was that he'd done something wrong. Just like he had years ago, when this whole mess had started.

His Nana didn't respond, instead releasing a shaky huff and continuing to hold tight to his arm as they made their way through the woods and back out into the yard behind the barn.

Langa stayed silent the whole way. Dread was slowly pounding into place inside him, until it was so heavy that he couldn't bring himself to so much as look up as they finally came to a stop, his chest heavy with guilt.

"Nana?" Patrice asked, still looking wholly puzzled as they stood silent atop the grass, the trees wavering in the wind behind them.

Finally, Nana released her vice-like grip on Langa's arm, leaving sore marks behind that Langa chose not to rub even as they throbbed beneath his clothes. He wasn't looking at his grandmother, who was still facing away from him, but he heard her trembling breath, so broken that it hit Langa like the final hammer blow, his brittle shields shattering fully.

Chin and lips trembling, he bit down hard on the inside of his cheek and blinked furiously against the pressure that wanted to burst out of him.

"Patrice, take Langa up to the house," Nana finally ordered, having regained some of her typical austerity.

"Okay," Patrice said lightly.

Once again, Langa didn't object, silent as Patrice gently reached out and tugged on his jacket, directing him to follow her. Staring at his feet, he walked on behind, thankful that she released her barely-there hold on him as they made their way around the barn to the drive.

She didn't say anything to him, though she did keep looking back, even as he failed to meet her gaze. He was too busy trying to keep everything down, afraid that the pressure and the nausea would leave him in a state that would only draw more unwanted attention.

Unfortunately, there was no safety from more eyes falling his way. As he and Patrice found themselves rounding back to the front of the house, they spotted more vehicles parked in the driveway. A motorcycle and some kind of sports car.

More people had arrived. No one had told him more people were coming over. He didn't want more people. He didn't know what he wanted, but the weight of more eyes definitely wasn't it.

Just breathe. Just blink back on the pressure and breathe.

Don't let them see.

What was Reki doing? How he wished he was back in Okinawa, where none of this mattered.

"There he is," his Aunt Odette said as he and Patrice became visible from the porch, making their way closer. She was a thin, spikey sort of person, in both fashion and personality. Leaning against the support pillar at the top of the steps, she held a lit cigarette between two fingers and looked at Langa like she knew something he didn't—quite normal for her, as she looked at nearly everyone in the same manner. She wore a black biker jacket—leather, with silver detailing—over a white t-shirt, with worn black jeans and boots of a matching aesthetic. Her gray hair was cut into a short pixie style, and her thin, cat-like eyes were the same blue as Langa's, though with darkly shadowed lids.

"Hello, Aunt Odette," Langa said as he and Patrice arrived at the steps, hoping he was doing a convincing job of hiding the turmoil otherwise assaulting his person. In one cracking moment, he'd gone from one side of the spectrum to the other—from feeling nothing to being assaulted by everything. Everything he'd been so desperately trying to keep a lid on these last few years. Neither option was better—they were both terrible. It took everything he had to keep himself steady.

"Hello, Mom," Patrice added, smiling in her blank sort of way. "I didn't know you were coming."

"Well, with Langa having already been here so long, I thought it the decent thing to do." She took a drag of her cigarette, sharp eyes never leaving Langa. He made sure not to meet them.

"You're taller than the last time we saw you," the other of their new visitors said. Richard, his father's best friend. He was sitting on the top step, smoking much the same as Odette, only Langa was quite certain—from experience and the smell—that he was handling a joint. Weed was his poison, as his father had used to say.

"What's your poison, Dad?" Langa asked, turning up to Oliver.

He laughed. "Your mother," he said simply.

"I might have grown a bit," Langa replied, flicking his gaze only quickly to Richard, before focusing down on his feet. He did his best to ignore the anxious thrumming of his entire body, realizing—much to his continued distress—that he'd have to remain amongst his family. If he attempted to retreat when so many people were there to see him, specifically, then they'd all know something was wrong. More wrong than they were already figuring, that was.

"A 'bit,'" Richard agreed, sounding humored and releasing an easy smile. He had a relaxed personality, never too bothered by much of anything. Having grown up wealthy and then inherited his livelihood from his father—some sort of supply company—he'd never been hard up for much of anything. Not that such made him conceited or pompous. Though he wasn't Langa's uncle by blood, he'd always been friendlier than Owen.

He possessed a sort of casual attractiveness—like he'd been an ace athlete in high school and aged without much change. Sporting an untucked button-up shirt, well-fitting khaki slacks, and brown boat shoes, Langa assumed he'd only just gotten off work. His dark purple hair was combed loosely over on top, before fading down short the rest of the way. His skin had the golden tinge of someone who'd spent the previous summer in the sun. Due to a break in his youth, his nose was slightly crooked, while his brown eyes were so light they occasionally appeared amber.

Though Richard had never been one for snowboarding, he'd been around far more than any of Langa's relatives when Langa had been a kid. Mostly due to the time he and Oliver had spent together. He'd even been Langa's babysitter some of the time, when he'd finally been able to cope with being away from his parents for extended periods of time.

Yet, despite any sort of habitual ease Langa might have had with Richard over Odette or Owen, he wasn't feeling any of it then. All he really wanted to do was retreat to his bedroom, but that wasn't going to be possible.

"So, what have you been up to?" Odette asked, arms crossing over her chest, cigarette still poised between her fingers. "I hear you skateboard now, and you've graduated."

"Uh, yeah," Langa agreed, the silence that followed dragging almost painfully.

"That's all very exciting," Odette said after the pause, perhaps accustomed to extended silences. She had grown up with Owen, after all, who was then sitting in the swing at the corner of the porch, his suit looking all the frumpier as he slumped in place, stared off across the yard, and contributed nothing to the conversation. "You have a friend that taught you? To skateboard? That's what Dad said." Luis, that was.

"Yeah, he did," Langa replied.

"Is this the same friend you're always texting?" she asked. "I've heard you text an awful lot, since you arrived."

Langa frowned.

"Don't be so nosy," Richard scolded, as he leaned back on his elbows.

"I'm just curious," she reasoned. "He is my only nephew." She grinned and pressed on. "So, you have this friend. Do you have a girlfriend?"

"No."

"A boyfriend?"

Langa's frown screwed up only quickly . "No…"

"I guess they are more conservative about that sort of thing in Japan," she said. "Even Patrice has a boyfriend."

"Maybe he doesn't want a girlfriend," Richard reasoned, before adding, "or boyfriend."

"I'm just curious," Odette said with a shrug.

"I broke up with my boyfriend," Patrice interjected softly.

"Did you?" Odette frowned. "Sorry, baby."

"It was for the best."

Taking another drag, Odette nodded. "It usually is. Not that you're alone, mind," she continued. "Poor Owen here has been unlucky in love recently as well."

Finally, Owen looked their way, expression none too impressed.

"Cindy broke things off, did she?" Odette asked him, turning toward her brother.

"Who told you that?" Owen asked gruffly.

"Mom." She turned back to Langa and Patrice, before muttering, "Apparently, he was a bit too clingy."

"Why are you telling them that?" Owen asked harshly, a glare overtaking his face.

"Why not? Shouldn't they learn from our mistakes?"

"They're not my kids," Owen snapped. "I don't see how my life should be relevant at all."

"Apparently Cindy told him she 'needed more space,'" Odette continued, while Owen huffed. "Who knew someone so prickly could be so overbearing?"

"I'm not—You know what? I'm not doing this." Hands raised, Owen marched down the porch toward the door.

"It is a little sad," Odette added. "He always was rather clingy as a kid, but it was cute back then."

Owen growled. "Can you stop?"

"I'm just telling it how it is."

"Or you could just mind your own goddamn business."

"Guys, guys, please," Richard interjected half-heartedly, but Owen was already headed off, the front door slamming closed as he disappeared into the house.

"Oh, touchy," Odette muttered.

Richard sighed and glanced up at her. "Why are you like this?"

"I don't see what the big deal is," she countered. "We all know what Owen is like, and we all knew Cindy would never have the patience to deal with someone like him."

"Someone like what?" Patrice asked, head cocking.

"Someone who's…" Odette appeared to be searching for the right words, before quickly giving up. "Oh, never mind. Ah, Mom!" She'd turned her attention to Nana, who was approaching from the same way Langa and Patrice had.

Insides wringing, Langa stood all the stiffer, continuing to keep his gaze strictly on the ground as his grandmother passed him by.

"You're just the person I was waiting for," Odette claimed, as Nana climbed the steps.

"Not now," Nana said briskly. "Where's your father?"

"Inside, I think," Odette replied. "Attempting to order pizza. Why?"

"I need to talk to him."

"About what?"

Nana didn't answer, instead continuing on into the house.

Langa barely breathed.

"Well, nice to see you too," Odette muttered.

"Not everyone can spare you all their attention," Richard said flatly.

"I know that," Odette replied, as she snuffed out her cigarette in the ashtray sitting on the nearby banister. "Why do you think I'm getting married?"

Richard chuckled. "Where is Taylor?"

"Oh, you know, working late, like usual."

"Huh." Richard shrugged. "Can't relate."

Odette hummed in feigned humor, before turning to head on inside as well. Patrice followed, leaving Langa alone with Richard. Which he didn't want, because the less people there were around, the more those who remained felt at liberty to ask questions. He ignored Richard's curious gaze as a result, instead forcing himself in behind Patrice.

The rest of the day slowly dragged on in much the same manner—Langa full of twisting anxiety while his family continually dished out random questions. Thankfully, short, modest responses were expected of him, so he could hide much of his stress behind his "quiet" personality. Yet, the looks both Nana and his grandfather would occasionally cast his way left him perpetually on edge, no matter how he tried to rationalize himself out of it. His grandparents wouldn't bring up finding him at the cliff with everyone else around—assuming Nana had told Luis about what had happened—though that didn't mean they wouldn't address it later, after everyone was gone. Which left Langa torn between wanting everyone to go away and desperately hoping they'd stay as long as possible. He didn't want to "talk" about what had happened—there'd been enough talk about it in years prior and he had no desire to revisit the subject. But like the slow pounding of a battle drum, the inevitability of such discourse was closing in. He felt suffocated, like someone had wrapped their hands around his throat and were slowly squeezing, so slowly that it was taking the entire afternoon to put him down.

Not even thinking of Reki and Okinawa offered any relief, because every time he did, he found himself stressing over his last conversation with Reki. He still didn't have his phone, which left him wondering whether or not Reki had texted him again. He hoped he had, but then was left fretting over what he might have said.

The visit passed in a blur as a result, Langa struggling to keep up with everything—the anxiety, the ever-present threat of emptiness that was continually—and painfully—whipped aside by his throbbing distress, the nausea that was made only worse when he tried to eat. He felt sicker by the time everyone was leaving than he had that morning, which was just another detail he had to struggle to hide.

He wasn't good at hiding, especially in front of people that knew him. Everyone there must have been able to see it—he felt as transparent as a window.

When Odette and Patrice finally left—after Owen and Richard had said their farewells half an hour before—Langa felt himself roped so tightly into place that he couldn't even look at his grandparents, even as they all stood silently in the entryway.

Eventually, Nana sighed. "Langa—"

"I told you I wasn't doing anything," he snapped, his previously shattered defenses barely holding together.

His grandparents were both quiet—sharing a look between themselves—before Luis gave into a slumping sigh.

"We believe you, Langa, of course," he assured.

Then why did they keep looking at him like that?!

"I'm really tired—I'm going to bed," Langa decided, taking his grandfather's words as a means of escape. Unable to face them, he kept his gaze unfocused as he turned and headed quickly up the stairs. Still plagued by equal amounts of dread and anxiety, he moved down the hall to his bedroom, making sure the door was closed securely behind him.

Heart thudding painfully in his chest, he hesitated only a second, before desperation drove him onward. Going to his bed, he grabbed up his phone and tapped at the screen to bring it to life.

He didn't have… any alerts.

Reki hadn't texted him at all.

Stones were dropping into his gut, his whole body growing heavy. To the point where he had to sit, the mattress creaking under his weight as he stared at his phone.

Had what he'd said really been that big of a deal? Of course it'd been nasty, but he hadn't thought it'd be enough to jeopardize their friendship. Then again, Reki had been putting in a lot of effort, trying to get him to talk—to explain—while Langa had continually blown him off.

Why would Reki have texted him, after such an exchange? It was Langa who'd been in the wrong. Reki had even told him about the texts he'd gotten from Nanako—he'd wanted to be honest. This whole time, he'd been nothing short of a wonderful friend—going above and beyond in so many ways—and Langa had repaid him with harsh, ungrateful words.

He had to fix this, but if he did, would Reki keep asking questions? Like so many others did? Langa wasn't in any state to deal with those questions, but the idea of Reki being mad at him, or disappointed, or even done with him altogether… He couldn't deal with that. Not right then. Not after such a horrible day.

He had to talk to Reki. He just had to, even if the idea scared him.

Swallowing hard, breath shaky, he pulled up his chat with Reki, practically flinching away from the sight of their last exchange. Before he gave in and started typing.

Langa: Reki?

It took a few seconds, but…

Reki: What?

Supposing it was better to start at the bottom—to deal with the worst—Langa's anxiety swelled within him as he typed.

Langa: Are we

Langa: Are we still friends?

He didn't want to believe that they weren't, but then, he'd been so mentally fucked up recently. Between his shitty attitude and the photos and the distance, maybe Reki had reached the point of having had enough.

Reki: Of course we're still friends.

Reki: Why wouldn't we be friends?

Langa: Just

Langa: the last time we were fighting

Langa: we stopped being friends.

That last time he'd fucked up, their entire relationship had fallen apart.

Reki: We're still friends.

Assurance that brought Langa considerable relief, even as his apprehension continued to spike. Reki still hadn't texted him all day, and while Langa had been the one initiating their conversations of late, this fact still made him anxious. He hated feeling anxious. Generally, he wasn't the type. Reki was the ball of nerves between the two of them most of the time, but so many big and small things had been adding up, even as Langa had found himself stranded in that horrible emptiness. Almost like the lid over the pit in which he was trapped had gradually been piled with everything he hadn't wanted to think about, until the weight had become too much and it's collapsed in on top of him. Now he was stuck in this hole, drowning in everything he didn't want to talk about with no realistic escape.

Langa: Then

Langa: are you mad?

Reki: I'm confused

Reki: And hurt.

Reki: But I'm not mad.

Hurt?

He'd hurt him. Reki. Like he had before, during the tournament without even realizing. Like how he hurt his family, constantly, with his neglect and his isolation and his past. He didn't want to hurt Reki—he didn't want to hurt anybody, but he just kept doing it. Over and over and over.

He needed to apologize, right? But how did he do that without explaining himself? He didn't want to go down that road—didn't want Reki to go down that road with him—yet, the day had been forcing him in that direction.

And he was so sick. And so tired.

Langa: Oh.

Langa: Okay.

He needed to say more—had to. But everything inside him felt like it was falling apart and all he really wanted was to hear Reki's voice.

Teeth gritting at the effort needed to keep himself from breaking completely, Langa blinked quite rapidly and stopped fighting the urge to call. His thumb clumsily navigated through his menu, until his chat with Reki had transformed into an outgoing call, the screen blurring as tears finally started breaking from his eyes. Lips pursing in his struggle to keep himself controlled, he held his phone to his ear and waited.

The ringing was eventually interrupted, there was silence, and then—

"Langa?"

The last of any remaining support broke at the sound of Reki's quiet voice, everything inside Langa bending over in the middle and sending his control crumbling. Eyes closing, he took in a shaky breath that he knew Reki could hear.

"Langa." He said his name again, more softly, and Langa knew that continuing to fight would be a losing battle. He was crying, though he hated it, and of course Reki could hear his weak sniffling and continued struggle to breathe.

"It's okay," Reki murmured. "Whatever it is, I'm here. I'm with you."

But he wasn't. For so long, Langa had grown accustomed to Reki being at his side, and now he was back in Canada—forced to face everything he'd been turned away from for so long. It felt like he was completely alone. The only small relief was hearing Reki's voice. Maybe, if he closed his eyes and just… listened to Reki talking…

"It's okay," Reki continued, while Langa's crying persisted. Not loudly—he wasn't that kind of crier. Maybe it'd be better if he was, but even the active sniffling, and hiccupping of his breath, and continual tears felt like too much. With each hitch of his chest, he grew weaker. Until his whole body was trembling and his head was wavering with dizziness.

"Try to take some deep breaths," Reki said through the phone. "I can hear that you're having a hard time breathing."

He was. To the point where he was getting lightheaded. He'd gradually leaned to the side, then collapsed backward, until he was lying on his bed, curled up, which probably didn't help, but the idea of getting up felt impossible. Like he didn't have any strength. All he could do was hold the phone to his ear, and even that…

"It's alright to cry, you know," Reki continued. "You say that to me, when I get upset. And it does feel better, if I just stop fighting it."

But Langa didn't want to be upset. Because if he was, then there was something others would think was worth being upset about. And that meant questions, and explanations. Yet, perhaps it was all too late for that now—there was no way he could convince Reki nothing was wrong after this.

Maybe he did have to stop fighting, but if he was honest—

If he told Reki the truth…

"Whatever it is, you can tell me," Reki said then—exactly what Langa didn't want him to say. "Don't hide from me anymore. Please."

Managing breath enough to fuel words, Langa choked out, "I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because—" Just thinking about it left him riddled with shame and guilt. "If you knew…"

"Then what?" Reki kept pushing—albeit, very gently.

Eyes scrunching, Langa shook his head, rubbing his tears all over his comforter.

"Langa…?"

"I don't want you to know," he admitted upon the single breath he managed to take in.

There was momentary silence on Reki's side, before, finally, "There's nothing you could tell me that would change anything between us."

His assurance wasn't comforting, because how could he say that about something he didn't know?

"I can't, I can't," Langa repeated uselessly. "I don't want you to—"

"Want me to what?"

"To—" Langa practically choked on the words. "To look at me… the way they do."

He was saying too much—toeing too close to the line—but there was nothing to stop the words coming up out of him. It was only his limited ability to talk around the subject that was saving him. And yet, he knew, if he kept talking to Reki, it'd overflow out of him. He should stop—he should end the whole conversation. But Reki's voice, it was the only soft spot amongst all the… jagged horribleness.

He didn't know what to do—everything was slipping out of his control. What little control he'd ever had.

"The way who looks at you?" Reki asked, his voice ever subdued—like he was talking to a child! Or one of his siblings! But then, if Reki was taking the time to bother with him, to talk so carefully to him, then that meant he cared, didn't it?

"Everybody who knows," Langa replied, still unable to stop his steady crying.

"Langa, I promise, nothing you say could change the way I look at you. There's nothing you could have possibly done."

"That's because you don't know!"

"I know you," Reki said, sounding so certain. "And I know what you're capable of, and what you're not. And if it…If it makes it any easier for you…" He paused, his own breath sounding slightly shaky, "I've already considered the worst, in the back of my mind, after—after talking to your mom. So… it's okay. To tell me."

The worst? Had he, really? Was it that obvious after talking to Nanako? Or was he simply not going down the road far enough? Both options were unsettling, and made Langa feel even worse.

"I promise it's okay," Reki persisted. "We're best friends, and you—you went through something horrible. I know that."

Another flood of tears cascaded down his face. "I was… really messed up," Langa said, not defensively, but like he had to at least try and justify his actions. "My head, it was—and…" Not that he was doing a very good job.

"That's okay—we're all messed up sometimes."

He didn't understand! Langa had been—the accident—

Maybe that didn't matter. Maybe he was simply trying to come up with excuses where there were none.

"That doesn't mean most people try to… kill themselves!" Langa finally said, another huge wave of stifling emotion assaulting him, carrying that horrible pain, anxiety, fear—everything. It left him shivering so badly he nearly dropped his phone.

On the other end of the line, Reki audibly took in a deep breath of his own, still sounding as if it trembled, but only slightly. Like he had to have time, to digest. Not a great sign? Or maybe everyone would need that time?

Langa had no idea. He'd never told anyone before. Everyone who knew had found out by default of what he'd done being exposed to them outside his control, not because he'd chosen for them to know. Not that he'd "chosen" for Reki to know, not really, but it'd been rolling up through him whether he'd wanted it or not.

"It's okay," Reki finally said, after a pause that was too long and felt like torture. "Well, I mean, it's not okay, but it's okay that you told me. That I know, I mean, because nothing between us is different, I promise."

A statement that sounded nice, but that Langa found very hard to believe.

"Do you… want me to ask what happened?"

"W—What?"

"I'm not going to ask you for details unless you want to tell me—I figure that's probably not something you… want to describe."

Langa floundered for a moment, before bracing himself and saying, "I don't remember, exactly. Just… flashes. I don't remember a lot from that time, actually." He'd been so injured from the accident—it was hard to parse through what he could recall, let alone what he'd been thinking or what had actually happened.

"Okay," Reki said simply. "I do… I do have to ask one thing, though."

Langa scrunched his eyes closed again and said nothing.

"You're not… suicidal right now, right?"

Langa curled up on himself. "No," he was able to say, with conviction. He couldn't recall the thought process that had led him to being at that point, though he knew what had contributed, obviously. It was a dark sort of low that he had a hard time entertaining presently. So far removed from his life in Okinawa, but then, if he was forced to live in Canada, in the condition he was then, for months…

"And—And if that changes, you'll tell me?" Reki continued.

Langa's heart flipped with nausea and he said nothing.

"Langa, promise me," Reki insisted, sounding stern and almost… nervous. "I don't care whether it's now or fifty years from now, if you start to feel that way, you have to tell me. Swear that you'll tell me."

Langa swallowed hard, trying to get such a terrible pill down where it needed to be. "I promise," he whispered.

"Good." Reki huffed. "Is this what's been so hard for you? Since you got there?"

"Some…" Langa replied. It wasn't everything—there were too many other variables to tie it up so neatly.

"Your family, they're the ones that… 'look' at you differently? Or did something happen?"

Reki and his intuitive deductions. Then again, Langa was in bed, crying, so perhaps it was logical to assume there'd been some kind of catalyst beyond what he'd been dealing with otherwise.

"I went to the place, where I… And then my grandmother found me there, and… it just made it worse. I keep—keep hurting them. You. Everyone."

"Nothing you've done to me is so bad that you need to be concerned about it now," Reki replied. "I know we don't fight that often, but it's bound to happen sometimes. And you're not… you're not hurting your family, Langa. If they're looking at you a certain way, it's probably because they're worried, that's all."

"I don't want them to worry. I'm not going to do anything!"

"I believe you," Reki replied quickly. "I'm not saying you will, I just… I don't know. I've never dealt with this kind of thing before. I'm sorry. Tell me what to say. I just want you to feel better—I want you to be okay."

There was nothing to say. Langa had inflicted a scar across his entire life when he'd done… what he had. Across his whole family too, and there was no going back now. He knew, rationally, that his family only looked at him the way they did because they cared, and yet, he hated it. Hated what he'd done, hated that it was what they inevitably thought of when they looked at him. Like his whole existence had been warped by some… fragmented, lost second of his life. But then, when that second had nearly ended his life—after having brushed so close to death only months before—maybe it was a second that could never be escaped.

He hoped not. He kept hoping that, somehow, it'd eventually disappear.

"Just tell me it can all go back to normal," Langa said quietly. "Tell me this can go away."

Reki, who wouldn't tell him something untrue, sighed. "It will go away, eventually. Time, it… it makes things fade. It hasn't been that long since you… I assume it hasn't been, anyway. The more time you spend with your family, the more memories they can make that don't involve that point in your life. And then it won't be what they think about when they see you. Just like it will never be what comes to mind first when I'm with you."

But it would, now, come to mind. Even if it was only sometimes, it would, and Langa couldn't put that reality back where it'd come from. It was too late for that.

"Please, just… stay with me—talk to me," Langa pleaded. "Anything, I don't care. Just… distract me."

"I can do that," Reki assured. "I can always do that."