Chapter Text
On the northern edge of Tokyo lies a train station. It glows red and green and singular.
The rain is cold. The air is warm.
Koutarou is now in tears.
‘Tetsu, please,’ he grits out. ‘Fuck, come on.’
The rain is thick. It wasn’t thirty-one minutes ago, when life still made sense. Had sense to be made out of it. Now the sense is leaking out of the sky. Flooding down on him. The rain is thick.
‘Kuroo.’ Akaashi isn’t in tears, but his voice is tight. High. ‘Are you still there?’
Tetsurou opens his mouth to reply. The rain gets in and makes sense. He closes it.
‘Kuroo, I need you to leave the station.’ Akaashi says it slowly, like Tetsurou doesn’t speak language anymore. ‘They’re on their way. You have five minutes to get out.’
Thirty-three minutes ago the train was still here. Right where he’s standing, holding his phone. Was. Twenty minutes ago the train was still here, doors open, unforgiving white light streaming onto the station, ride to the horrible future. Now the rain is thick and the station is mostly darkness, lone scattered lamps doing nothing against the sheets of sense coming down on him.
The fireblossom’s the brightest thing, the only one that still makes perfect sense. Its petals frail flames, the midnight-black stem. Thirty-minutes-ago-midnight-black. Midnight-still-made-sense-black. Held so light between his two fingers that it’ll fall any moment, smoulder on the tar.
‘Kuroo,’ Akaashi says. The line crackles. ‘It was the last train out. They’ve stopped all the others.’
Tetsurou stares down at the flower on his palm. Every drop that hits it is turning into steam, fading into the warm air. It’s orange and red and blue and brilliant. Not hissing and spitting like Koutarou was ten minutes ago when he thought anger would get Tetsurou to move. Just burning.
‘Tetsurou. They’re coming to get you. Three—’
A perfect gunshot blows open the turnstile. The rain stops mid-air, still enough for Tetsurou to touch.
He reaches out and touches. It starts to move again. Even though Tetsurou’s still again. Even though Akaashi’s shouting something on the phone now. Even though the fireblossom’s glowing hotter, hotter, white-hot.
Now life makes too much sense.
Tetsurou turns, finally. Faces the shadows hurtling at him. Lowers the blossom and raises his head.