The walk to the infirmary was a grim procession. Sora and Riku flanked Ren, offering steadying arms he initially tried to shrug off before reluctantly accepting. Ayame walked beside me, a silent, vigilant presence radiating a protective intensity that was both comforting and deeply unnerving.
The stares from the few stragglers in the halls were different now – less morbid curiosity, more a mix of shock, pity directed at our battered state, and open awe aimed at Ayame.
Whispers slithered past: "Kurosawa-san faced down Sato!" "Did you see? She was fearless!" "Tanaka looks like he went through a woodchipper…" The last whisper, sharp and speculative, sent a fresh wave of that internal coldness through me.
Nurse Fujimoto, a perpetually harried woman with kind eyes magnified behind thick lenses, took one look at us and sighed, the sound heavy with years of patching up teenage idiocy. "Fighting, Tanaka-kun? Nakamura-kun?" She tutted, her gaze lingering on my swelling cheek and Ren's ashen pallor. "Such foolishness."
She prodded Ren's stomach, eliciting a sharp gasp. "Bad bruising. Possible cracked rib. No internal bleeding, I think. Rest. Ice. No movement." She turned to me, cleaning the gravel-scraped cheek with stinging iodine.
The shoulder examination was agony; her gentle probing sent fireworks of pain down my arm. "Deep contusion. Significant swelling. Possible ligament strain. Ice. Rest. Absolutely no strenuous activity."
She handed me a fresh cold pack and some strong painkillers. "Go home. Rest. Report back tomorrow. Understood? Both of you."
We mumbled assent, chastened. As we left, Ren managed a weak clap on my good shoulder. "Meet you at the gates in ten? Need my bag… and maybe a wheelchair."
"Hai."
Ayame lingered as Sora and Riku helped Ren shuffle towards his classroom. The infirmary hallway was quiet now, sterile and smelling of bleach and despair. The late sun slanted through the high windows, painting dusty golden stripes on the linoleum.
"Haruki-kun," she began, her voice softer now, hesitant. "Why? Why provoke him like that? You know what he is."
I stared at the cold pack in my hands, the condensation beading and running down the plastic like tears.
"He… he always does it. The 'Haruki-chan'. The Emergence jokes. The looks. Every. Single. Day." The frustration, long-suppressed, bubbled up, raw and hot. "I'm not soft. I'm not playing pretend. I'm just… me. Trying to be me. And today…" I swallowed hard, the memory of his sneer twisting my gut. "I just… couldn't take the whispering anymore. Couldn't take him. Couldn't just… disappear." I trailed off, the heat rising in my face again. It sounded so futile, so stupid, after the reality of Kaito's fists and the cold dirt.
Ayame was silent for a long moment, her gaze fixed on the shifting patterns of light on the floor. "It is stupid," she said quietly, the word landing with blunt, undeniable truth. "Reckless and self-destructive." She looked up, her dark eyes meeting mine, holding a depth of understanding that startled me.
"But… I understand the feeling. The desperate need to push back against the… the pressure. To prove you exist." She looked towards the window, her expression distant, haunted.
She touched my arm lightly, just above the cold pack, her fingers warm. "Don't let him make you feel less than you are, Haruki-kun. Whatever happens… whoever you are…Never forget that."
Ren was waiting at the gate, leaning against the red paint, his bag clutched to his chest like a shield. He looked marginally less like death, but the pallor remained. "Kurosawa-san give you the 'inherent human dignity' pep talk too?" he asked, his voice strained but attempting his usual tone.
"Something like that," I muttered, adjusting the cold pack, the ache in my shoulder a constant, throbbing reminder.
The walk to the station was slow, agonizing. Every step sent jolts through my shoulder and ribs. Ren moved stiffly, guarding his middle. The familiar streets seemed alien, hostile. The cold spot feeling… it wasn't gone. It was a low hum beneath the pain.
"Still think picking a fight with a human bulldozer was a smart career move?" Ren asked, though the barb lacked its usual edge.
"Shut up," I replied, devoid of heat. "You're the one who tried to tackle a mountain."
"Someone had to save your scrawny ass," he retorted, but he bumped my good elbow carefully. "Seriously, though. That comeback in the caf? Ice cold. Even if the execution was… messy." He winced as he shifted his bag. "Sato won't forget that. Or forgive it."
"I know," I said quietly. The weight of that knowledge settled heavily alongside the physical pain.
The train ride home was purgatory. The press of bodies felt suffocating, the smells nauseatingly strong. I flinched violently when someone jostled my injured shoulder, earning a surprised and slightly annoyed "Sumimasen." The cold pack was lukewarm now, useless against the deep, sick ache or the deeper, unsettling chill inside. I closed my eyes, trying to block it out, but Ayame's words echoed: "Whoever you become…"
Home. The familiar scent of incense and simmering nikujaga usually wrapped around me like a blanket. Tonight, it felt distant, muffled, separated by a pane of thick glass. Mother took one look at my face – the swelling cheek, the pallor, the way I cradled my arm – and her hand flew to her mouth. "Haruki! Kami-sama! What happened?" Her voice cracked with fear.
"Just a fall, Okaasan," I lied, the words ash in my mouth. I couldn't meet her eyes. "Tripped on the stairs after… after soccer practice. Ren tried to catch me. We both went down." The lie felt flimsy, pathetic.
Hina peered around the kitchen doorway, her eyes wide with a child's horrified fascination.
"Onii-chan! Did you get in a real fight? Like in Yakuza? Did you win?"
"Hina! Iie!" Mother snapped, but her eyes never left my face, filled with a mother's terrifyingly accurate radar that pierced through the lies. She saw the shame, the fear, the unspoken terror beneath the surface. She ushered me to the kotatsu, the warmth underneath feeling alien. "Sit. I'll get more ice. Then dinner. You look…" She trailed off, unable to articulate the ghost she saw in her son. "Hontoni pale."
Dinner was a tense, silent affair. Mother's worried glances were laser beams. Hina chattered nervously about her day, the forced normalcy a stark, grating contrast to the internal and external wreckage. I pushed the food around my plate, the savory smells turning my stomach. Every twinge in my shoulder, every throb in my ribs, every inexplicable shiver felt amplified, scrutinized under the harsh lens of possibility.
Later, soaking in the steaming ofuro, the heat seeped into my bruised muscles, offering a sliver of relief. But the core-deep chill remained, a stubborn iceberg in the warm sea. I stared at the condensation running down the tiles, my mind replaying the day in brutal slow motion – Kaito's sneer, the sickening impact, the helplessness, Ren crumpling, and then Ayame… her fury, her compassion, her touch. Her words: "Whoever you become… intrinsic worth…"
A violent tremor ran through me, shaking the water. A disjointed, visceral memory slammed into me, sharp and unbidden: Hina, maybe five years old, wailing over a scraped knee.
Mother's voice, soft, melodic, utterly unlike her usual tone with me: "Daijoubu, Hina-chan. Mamma's here. See? All better. Let Mamma kiss it." The memory wasn't just visual; I felt the echo of that specific, soothing cadence, the warmth of that soft comfort.
I scrambled out of the bath, the chill hitting my damp skin like a physical blow, sharper, deeper than before. I turned away from the mirror quickly, unable to bear the terrified beaten stranger looking back. The warmth of the house felt utterly insufficient against the new, profound cold radiating from within.