Yellow Diamond: Chapter 2 - part 5

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He suddenly woke up. The sound of the door opening and voices talking. His body flinched under the sheets.

"Does it hurt? Are you okay?"

"Yes."

He recognized the voice answering the school nurse. The sound of a chair creaking, the opening of a cabinet, footsteps pacing back and forth.

"It might sting a little, but bear with it, okay?"

The sharp smell of disinfectant wafted over to where Shun’ichi lay in bed.

"It looks flashy, but the cut itself isn’t too deep. How did you manage to cut yourself like this?"

"I was using an electric jigsaw. I'm not good with those, and I just couldn’t get used to it."

It really was Akimori’s voice. In the now quiet nurse’s office, a soft "Ouch" escaped, breaking the silence.

"Oh, sorry about that. All done. You should rest here for the rest of the period. With that finger, you won’t be able to continue working. I’ll inform the teacher for you."

"But…"

"No need to push yourself. I need to head back to the staff room, but if anyone comes by, can you let me know?"

The sound of the door closing followed, and through the short curtains around the bed, Shun’ichi could see Akimori’s red indoor shoes pacing back and forth hesitantly. Go away, just go back to class, Shun’ichi wished, but without any warning, the curtain was suddenly drawn back. Akimori, with his right hand wrapped in bandages, stood there, wide-eyed in surprise as he looked straight at him. Panicked, Shun’ichi pulled the sheets over his head.

"Sanada-kun?"

Even without answering, he could feel Akimori approaching.

"Are you feeling unwell? The teacher was worried because you weren’t in fifth period."

A hand touched him through the sheet.

"Did you properly see the school nurse?"

Shun’ichi was being shaken now. When he still didn’t respond, the sheets and blanket were yanked off all at once.

"What happened to your face?"

Akimori’s puzzled gaze fixed directly on Shun’ichi’s face. Shun’ichi lowered his head, trying to avoid being seen.

"Shut… shut up."

His voice trembled.

"Your forehead is bleeding. Doesn’t it hurt?"

"Just leave me alone!"

Shun’ichi shouted and pressed his face hard into the pillow. He thought Akimori had stepped away, but soon he felt the presence beside him again, a hand patting his shoulder.

"Let’s at least disinfect it."

Shun’ichi raised his head. Akimori was holding a piece of gauze and a white bottle.

"It might sting a little."

The smell of disinfectant and the sensation of fingers getting closer. Shun’ichi stopped trying to escape and closed his eyes softly. The stinging pain on his forehead felt like burning, but he bit his lip and endured it. The pain gradually faded into the distance. When he opened his eyes, Akimori was pressing a large adhesive bandage onto his forehead.

"All done."

Muttering this, Akimori, who had leaned on the mattress to disinfect the wound, pulled back. As he did, the container of disinfectant that had been sitting at the edge of the bed tipped over. The sharp-smelling liquid spilled and soaked into the bed. Akimori hurriedly grabbed the container and set it upright, but the contents had already poured out.

"Whoa, what should we do…?"

Akimori held his head in his hands, staring at the stained area. The liquid itself wasn’t colored, so it wasn’t obvious that it had spilled, but the smell of disinfectant was so strong it made Shun’ichi feel dizzy.

"It reeks," Shun’ichi muttered, and Akimori grimaced and looked down.

"How are we supposed to clean this up?"

Still staring at the bedding, Akimori looked genuinely troubled. Shun’ichi tilted his head.

"You can’t clean this up."

They exchanged glances.

"Yeah, you’re right," Akimori answered, his clueless response making Shun’ichi chuckle.

"It’s disinfectant. It’ll just make things cleaner, right?"

Akimori smiled as well.

"That’s true."

But even though they said that, the smell was overwhelming, so they escaped to the bed next to them.

"Did you hurt your leg too?"

Noticing Shun’ichi was limping, Akimori stared at his right foot.

"Yeah, kind of…"

He slid onto the bed from the side. For some reason, Akimori crawled up onto the bed with him.

"Why are you getting in too?"

"Because there’s only one bed," Akimori replied. Shun’ichi couldn’t exactly tell him to leave, but he found it odd to be lying down in the same bed with someone who only had an injured hand. He flopped onto the bed, still feeling awkward about sharing it with someone other than Isamu or Kunihiko. It felt strange.

"Why are you so hurt?" came a question from Akimori’s back beside him.

"I fell down the stairs."

Akimori shot up and peered closely at Shun’ichi's face. The suddenness and the closeness startled Shun’ichi, making him pull back.

"Which stairs did you fall from?"

"The ones leading to the rooftop landing."

Akimori’s face turned pale.

"That’s serious! You need to go to the hospital and get checked right away!"

He looked like he was about to call an ambulance any second.

"Don’t make such a fuss. It’s not that bad."

"But…"

The worried expression didn’t fade.

"If I just sleep a bit, I’ll be fine," Shun’ichi said brusquely. Finally, Akimori stopped making a fuss. He might have been a bit over-the-top, but it felt nice to have someone worry about him. Especially after being treated like less than trash earlier, the concern felt even more comforting. Akimori’s fingers, still tentative, lightly touched Shun’ichi’s hair.

"Didn’t it hurt?"

It felt like a mother’s touch. Shun’ichi couldn’t remember his mother, but he imagined it would feel like this. The warmth of being cared for made him unable to shake off the hand, even though he felt embarrassed and his tone turned cold.

"It did."

"Weren’t you scared of falling?"

"I was."

The fingers cradled his head.

"Poor thing. That must have been really scary."

The hardened walls Shun’ichi had built against Mizusawa’s bullying began to crumble under the kindness in those words. He roughly brushed away the comforting fingers.

"What do you mean, ‘poor thing’? Why should I need your pity?"

Akimori looked startled.

"I just thought… falling down the stairs must have been terrifying for you…"

Akimori didn’t know that Mizusawa had cornered him on those stairs, forcing him to fall. Shun’ichi’s chest tightened with resentment as he bit his lip and buried his face in the bed. A finger touched his shoulder, making him flinch. It withdrew, only to return hesitantly, gently stroking his head and shoulder. Tears soaked into the sheets. His back shook, and soon the sobs couldn’t be hidden any longer.

"Why are you crying?"

Akimori tugged at his shoulder, revealing half of Shun’ichi’s tear-streaked face. He yanked the handkerchief Akimori offered and pressed it against his face.

"It’s okay now. You don’t have to be scared anymore."

A whispered reassurance brushed his ear as Akimori’s hand wrapped around his waist, pulling him into a hug. The warmth pressed against his back made the tears flow even harder. Akimori stroked his trembling head and gently rubbed his back.

They eventually fell asleep, tangled together, until the school nurse, returning to lock up the nurse’s office, softly woke the two boys who were fast asleep in the same bed.

Akimori took care of him like a loyal servant. He went back to the classroom to fetch Shun’ichi's bag, and even spoke to their homeroom teacher, Fukiyama, without being asked. Fukiyama came to check on him in the nurse’s office and asked, "Are you okay? Do you think you need to go to the hospital?" When Shun’ichi replied, "I’m fine, it doesn’t hurt anymore," Fukiyama sighed in relief and said, "If anything happens, make sure to tell me before you head to the nurse’s office," before leaving. He didn’t ask why Shun’ichi had fallen down the stairs.

By the time they stepped outside, school had long since ended, and the atmosphere was filled with the fading light of early evening. Although the rain had stopped, the overcast sky made everything seem darker than usual. Shun’ichi couldn’t help but limp on his injured right foot, and Akimori lent him his shoulder.

"Hey, are you by any chance having a fight with Mizusawa and his group?"

The question came out of nowhere as they walked, avoiding the puddles on the sidewalk.

"You never talk to them, and during breaks or lunch, you always leave the classroom alone. I didn’t notice, but Ishihara said… well, it seems like you’re being bullied."

The warmth in Shun’ichi's chest suddenly turned cold and dark.

"From tomorrow, why don’t you hang out with us? You can join us for lunch, too. Everyone’s nice, and you don’t need to stay with that group if it’s making you feel bad."

His chest hardened, and it felt like his ears shut themselves off. He didn’t want to hear anything anymore. No matter what happened, he swore to himself that he wouldn’t cry out for help from this guy. Why did he always crumble the moment someone showed even a hint of sympathy? Was it because Akimori was the son of a doctor? Because he had everything? Shun’ichi couldn’t figure it out. After all, he wasn’t so miserable that he deserved anyone’s pity. Sure, his father wasn’t very smart, his mother wasn’t around, his family was poor, and he was being bullied… but none of that was a big deal. He never once said "help me." So why did people keep offering these unwanted hands?

There were times when he did want kindness—times when he felt pain or needed help. But that was something he wanted when he truly needed it, not when it was forced on him unasked. That kind of unsolicited kindness felt suffocating. Just earlier, when he was crying, he had been grateful for the hand offered to him. But this hand being held out now, saying "Come with us," he didn’t need it. He didn’t want it. Absolutely not.

"Here is fine," he said, roughly shaking off Akimori’s supportive hand.

"I’ll walk you to your house."

"No. I want to be alone."

He firmly rejected the hand that reached out again. Akimori, looking hurt, stared at Shun’ichi with eyes that seemed to want to say something. Shun’ichi turned his back on that gaze, forcing himself to walk in a way that didn’t show his injured foot. Akimori didn’t follow. And yet, the fact that he wasn’t being followed left Shun’ichi feeling lonely. This contradiction, this confusion, left him not knowing how to feel anymore.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

The next day, Shun’ichi's right ankle had swollen up like an elephant’s. The day before, Isamu had repeatedly asked, “Do you want to go to the hospital?” as Shun’ichi limped along, but since he could still walk, he stubbornly refused and endured it. That had probably been a mistake. His ankle began to throb painfully in the middle of the night, waking him up several times. By morning, sleep-deprived and groggy, he was shocked to see his right foot—swollen to nearly twice its normal size. Isamu was equally alarmed and hurriedly called Kunihiko. Kunihiko rushed over, and they immediately took Shun’ichi to the hospital by car.

The X-ray showed no fractures, but the doctor diagnosed a severe sprain. The doctor advised him to rest for two to three days, keep the ankle taped, and avoid any strenuous activity until the pain subsided. With a relieved expression, Kunihiko drove Shun’ichi and Isamu home before heading off to work.

By the time they returned from the hospital, it was already past noon. Shun’ichi weakly asked, "Can I skip school today?" Isamu easily nodded and said, "Yeah, that’s fine." The hectic trip to the hospital had left him exhausted, so he burrowed back into the futon that had been left out. Meanwhile, Isamu sat in front of his phone, muttering something to himself before suddenly grabbing it with a firm grip.

"Uh, hello… I’m Shun’ichi’s father… Yes, Shun’ichi Sanada, from Class 1-C. Is the homeroom teacher available? Oh, they’re in class? …Well, that’s a problem. Um, Shun’ichi sprained his ankle and had to go to the hospital. He’s pretty tired, so I’m going to let him rest at home today. Could you let the teacher know? Ah, sorry about this."

Isamu’s hesitant and awkward delivery made Shun’ichi cringe with secondhand embarrassment. As soon as his father ended the call, he let out a long sigh of relief. Shun’ichi knew there was no point in getting angry—it wasn’t like his father could help it—so he just pressed his face into the futon, trying to ignore him.

As he lay there, it wasn’t just his ankle that hurt. His back and thighs, which had been bruised the day before, ached with a dull, throbbing heat. He asked Isamu to stick some of the cooling patches he’d been given for his ankle onto his back as well. The cold of the patches seeped into the areas radiating heat, and it felt soothing.

"Hey… why do you have so many bruises?" Isamu muttered quietly.

It wasn’t just from falling down the stairs. His body had been kicked all over by Mizusawa and his group. Flustered, Shun’ichi quickly yanked down the hem of his T-shirt.

"I fell pretty badly yesterday."

"Doesn’t it really hurt?"

Isamu leaned in, resting his hands by the pillow, peering into Shun’ichi’s face. Shun’ichi glanced sideways, catching a glimpse of his father.

"It doesn't hurt that much. Don't you need to go to work, Isamu?"

"I told the boss my kid got hurt, and he gave me the day off. Don’t you go worrying about things like that when you’re just a kid," Isamu replied.

Feeling reassured, Shun’ichi closed his eyes. Warm fingers touched his forehead, sending a small sting of pain through him.

"You’ve got a cut on your face, too. How’d you get hurt like this? You don’t get banged up this bad just from tripping."

"I fell."

"From where?"

"...The stairs."

Isamu didn’t seem particularly surprised.

"See, that’s what happens when you space out. You need to be more careful."

It wasn’t because I was spacing out, Shun’ichi quietly protested in his mind. I was kicked down.

"But I fell from the very top of the stairs."

Isamu tousled Shun’ichi’s hair, his small fingers working through it, despite being a grown man.

"Well then, you were lucky to get away with just this. You’ve got your mom watching over you after all. Be sure to thank her properly later."

If his mother was really watching over him, why didn’t she stop Mizusawa from cornering him in the first place? The thought passed through Shun’ichi’s mind, but he didn’t ask his father.

"Since I’ve got the day off, I’m staying right here with you. If it hurts or anything, tell me right away."

Isamu spoke as if he were talking to a small child, gently rubbing Shun’ichi’s back.

"You don’t have to stay. Do whatever you want."

On his days off, Isamu usually spent the entire day laughing at TV shows or playing games on his phone. But today, he wasn’t doing either.

"There’s nothing else to do. Besides, it’s fun watching you."

Isamu grinned.

"You used to be so small, always running after me everywhere, and now you’ve grown so fast. Sometimes you make these surprisingly mature expressions. It makes me happy, but it’s kinda lonely too."

His fingers lightly brushed Shun’ichi’s cheek.

"Don’t go getting hurt like this anymore. If I could take your place, I would, but that’s something I can’t do. So, is there anything you want? I’ll get you whatever you like today. Comics, snacks, anything—just say the word."

Shun’ichi regretted ever thinking, even for a moment, that he didn’t need his father. The feeling crushed him with guilt.

"I don’t need anything."

"No need to hold back. I always feel bad, y’know? You never ask for much, but I wonder if you’re really just holding yourself back. When I was your age, I wanted all sorts of things. So, just this once, go ahead and be selfish."

Shun’ichi’s chest tightened. Even if he was treated like trash at school, he still had Isamu. He had a father who cherished him this much.

"...Dad, hold my hand."

Immediately after saying it, Shun’ichi felt embarrassed and pulled the covers over his head. Isamu’s small hand fumbled its way under the blanket and squeezed his tightly. Even if the whole world turned against him, Shun’ichi knew this hand would protect him. Feeling the overwhelming, undeniable love in that touch, Shun’ichi closed his eyes, finally at peace.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

The next day, Shun’ichi's right foot was still badly swollen. That morning, Kunihiko drove him to school, but from the school gate onward, he had to walk on his own. As he limped along, his ankle still aching despite being taped, he spotted his homeroom teacher, Fukiyama, approaching from the hallway. Noticing Shun’ichi, Fukiyama hurried over.

"You okay? I heard you walked home the other day, so I figured it wasn’t that bad..."

"It’s just a bad sprain."

Fukiyama sighed as he looked at Shun’ichi’s foot, which had swollen to nearly twice its normal size.

"With that, it looks like you won’t be able to do any sports for a while. I’ll let Sasakawa, your P.E. teacher, know. Make sure not to push yourself. I heard you fell down the stairs, right?"

In his mind, Shun’ichi screamed, "Mizusawa kicked me down the stairs!" But outwardly, he only let out a hollow reply.

"The floor was wet, and I slipped."

Fukiyama gave a shallow nod.

"Ah, yeah, it did rain that day. Be more careful from now on."

With that, his homeroom teacher left. It didn’t matter if he was careful; getting kicked down the stairs wasn’t something he could avoid. But at this point, Shun’ichi didn’t care anymore. He just dragged his aching foot up the stairs to his classroom on the second floor.

"Good morning."

A voice called out from behind. When he turned around, Akimori was smiling hesitantly. The awkward way they’d parted the other day flashed through Shun’ichi's mind, and he quickly averted his eyes.

"You were absent yesterday. I asked the teacher, and they said you went to the hospital, so I was worried. Are you okay?"

"Yeah."

He gave a curt reply and started walking.

"Ah, wait."

Before he knew it, Akimori had taken his school bag.

"Let me carry it for you. It’s hard to walk the stairs on one foot. You can lean on my shoulder if you want."

Akimori took it upon himself to help, without being asked. That kind of behavior irritated Shun’ichi, but Akimori didn’t seem to notice at all. Even when Shun’ichi said, "Give it back," Akimori pretended not to hear, let alone return the bag. Frustrated beyond belief, Shun’ichi left him behind and forced himself to walk normally, hiding the pain.

"Are you sure you should be walking like that?" Akimori’s voice buzzed in his ear. Annoyed and irritated by both the pain and the conversation, Shun’ichi furrowed his brow as he opened the door to the classroom. The noisy chatter inside fell silent as though someone had thrown cold water on the room. Every eye turned to him. He didn’t know why, but everyone was staring.

Then Akimori, who had followed behind him, suddenly shouted, "What the hell is this?!" and bolted toward Shun’ichi’s desk. That’s when Shun’ichi finally noticed it—the vase holding a single white chrysanthemum sitting on his desk.

"Who did this?!"

Akimori, his face flushed with anger, turned toward the classroom, demanding answers. Shun’ichi could hear his sharp intake of breath as his eyes landed on the blackboard. Written in large letters was: Shun’ichi Sanada’s funeral, June 18th, 2:00 p.m.

They finally killed me. That was his first thought. But the sadness only lasted for a moment before it all seemed ridiculous. Shun’ichi repeated to himself, Be strong. No matter how many times those bastards killed him in their minds, it didn’t matter.

Akimori threw the flower into the trash and slammed the vase onto a desk, still yelling.

"Own up! This is cowardly!"

It struck Shun’ichi as strange—why was Akimori getting so worked up over something that wasn’t even his problem?

"Akimori, be quiet."

The words came out of Shun’ichi's mouth in a calm, quiet voice.

"But… they did something like this…"

"I said it’s fine."

Akimori’s face showed he wasn’t convinced. Maybe because he was an outsider, someone not personally involved, he could afford to be angry. As the stares of the classroom bore down on him, Shun’ichi limped to his seat and pulled a textbook from his bag. Mizusawa wasn’t sitting in front of him. He was by the window, surrounded by his usual group of four near Tsutsui’s desk.

"It was Mizusawa who did this," Akimori whispered quietly.

"That handwriting is definitely his, I’m sure of it. I’ll testify, so let’s go tell the teacher."

Even if they told Fukiyama, there was no proof that Mizusawa wrote it. Mizusawa and his group were sneaky and careful; it wasn’t like them to leave evidence by writing on the blackboard in front of others. Frustrated by Shun’ichi’s silence, Akimori rubbed his thumb irritably.

"It’s awful. Why do you have to go through something like this, Sanada-kun? Just because your dad works a dirty job doesn’t mean you smell or anything. It’s so unfair."

Shun’ichi’s fingers grew cold. Did Akimori even understand what he was saying? Probably not. He likely never really thought about how his words affected others. Behind his righteous indignation was a type of pity that strangled Shun’ichi, and Akimori didn’t even realize it. Shun’ichi hated people like that. It made him feel sick.

"Get out of here."

Akimori looked confused, as if he didn’t understand why Shun’ichi was shouting at him.

"I said get out!"

Shun’ichi’s voice rose in a hysterical, frustrated cry, and Akimori slowly backed away. In the end, Mizusawa and Akimori were the same. None of them were his friends. No one understood him. Shun’ichi turned his gaze to the window—he didn’t want to look at anyone’s face. The classroom’s chatter gradually returned, but nobody moved to erase the writing on the blackboard. The warning bell rang, and the students who had been outside filed back into the room. One student stood, walked to the blackboard, and quietly erased the words about the funeral. It was the class monitor’s job, after all. And just like that, the reality of what had happened disappeared as if it had never been.

"Hey."

Mizusawa, who had been watching everything from afar, came back to his seat in front of Shun’ichi and spoke.

"Why are you still alive?"

Mizusawa tilted his head in genuine confusion, as if the fact that Shun’ichi was still living defied logic.

"I thought you were dead. We even went through the trouble of preparing your funeral."

Shun’ichi ignored him, trying to hide the trembling in his heart. Mizusawa clicked his tongue, clearly annoyed by the lack of reaction.

"Your dad didn’t even graduate from a proper high school, did he?"

How did he know that? Shun’ichi had never told anyone. Mizusawa must have noticed the shock on his face, because he let out a loud, mocking laugh.

"Your dad collects trash in my neighborhood too. Always grinning like an idiot, and I thought, ‘He must be dumb as hell.’ Turns out I was right."

Mizusawa twirled his finger beside his temple, a mocking gesture.

"He can’t even read sodai gomi—bulky garbage. What a joke. And then there was the day he told me four times seven was twenty-five with a straight face. I mean, come on, give me a break. He should just go back to elementary school."

Shun’ichi’s face flushed hot with shame. The surrounding silence made it all the more humiliating, knowing everyone was listening. Mizusawa wasn’t lying. Isamu really couldn’t read kanji, and he made mistakes with simple multiplication. Trembling with anger and embarrassment, Shun’ichi glared at Mizusawa.

"So what if he can’t read kanji? What does that even matter?!"

Sure, Isamu wasn’t smart, and he was always smiling, but he was kind and hardworking. He had stayed by Shun’ichi’s side all day yesterday just because he was worried. No matter what anyone else thought, Shun’ichi refused to "deny" his father. He loved him too much to ever do that. While Shun’ichi stood there, defiant and ready to fight, Mizusawa just sighed with a bored expression.

"You really don’t get it, do you? It’s not about good or bad. You and your dad are a burden to society. Don’t you understand that?"

Shun’ichi’s mind went blank. Heat surged through his body. Before he could even think, his right hand had grabbed Mizusawa by the collar of his shirt. He pulled him close and, without hesitation, slammed his fist into Mizusawa’s twisted, shocked face. Mizusawa fell backward, toppling over his chair, blood spurting from his mouth and nose.

A girl’s scream pierced the air. Shun’ichi stood there, still clenching his fist, staring in a daze at Mizusawa writhing on the floor, face covered in blood, screaming, "It hurts! It hurts!"

Their homeroom teacher, Fukiyama, who had just walked into the chaotic classroom, shouted, "Quiet down!" He then rushed over to Mizusawa, who was bleeding all over.

"Hey, are you okay?"

Mizusawa, cradled by the teacher, sobbed and pointed shakily at Shun’ichi.

"It was him... Sanada hit me. He hit me! Waaaah..."

With his face covered in blood and crying uncontrollably, Mizusawa looked like the perfect victim. And Shun’ichi, without a doubt, was the aggressor.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

The "victim" was escorted to the nurse’s office by the health committee, while the "perpetrator" was dragged down the hallway by the homeroom teacher, Fukiyama, who had a firm grip on his arm. Every step Shun’ichi took sent sharp pain through his swollen right ankle, like stepping on needles. Despite glancing briefly at Shun’ichi’s swollen foot, Fukiyama showed no sign of slowing down.

"Why did you hit Mizusawa?"

As soon as they entered the disciplinary office, Fukiyama demanded an answer without even letting Shun’ichi sit. His tone was filled with anger, but no matter how much he pressed, Shun’ichi had no intention of saying a word. The fact that he had "hit" Mizusawa was true, and for that, there was no need for explanations or justifications. No matter how much Fukiyama pushed, Shun’ichi remained silent, like a clam refusing to open. Finally, after getting no response, Fukiyama stormed out, leaving him with the words, "Think about what you’ve done."

The moment he was alone, Shun’ichi’s legs gave out, and he slid to the floor. He stared at his right hand, the one he had used to punch Mizusawa. The back of it was faintly red and sore. Even though the room wasn’t cold, his body wouldn’t stop trembling. He didn’t regret hitting Mizusawa, but the shaking wouldn’t subside.

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