COLD THE FINAL: Chapter 3

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COLD FEVER – Toward the Future…

He was dreaming.

At first, he didn’t realize it was a dream. No—maybe he just didn’t want to realize it was a dream.

Keishi Fujishima was sitting on the living room sofa. He thought, I’m kind of hungry, and just then, something was silently placed in front of him.

“Here you go.”

A simple strawberry shortcake, on a white plate—the kind of treat he had longed for as a child. When he’d told Tohru that story, Tohru had started making it for him often.

“Is it good?”

As he stuffed his mouth, Tohru looked down at him with a gentle smile. The sweetness spreading across his tongue was matched by the warmth in his chest, and he nodded. When he reached out, wanting affection, Tohru pulled him into an embrace. Even as a flicker of traumatic memories made his body tremble, the strength of that hug erased them completely.

He had waited... he had waited so long for this man to return. As their bodies warmed and melted into each other, the feeling of unity blurred, and the sweet dream receded into the distance—he woke up.

Silence. Darkness.

A sharp, green scent of sex lingered in the air. He reached out, groping his surroundings. There was still residual warmth on the sheets, but no one was beside him. The cool air clung to his bare skin. His body felt heavy and sluggish as he sat up. The afterimage of the dream faded, and the harsh reality crept back in.

He used to have dreams like this, back when Tohru had been emotionally unstable. When reality became too painful, he’d wish to at least escape in his sleep. But over time, as Tohru began to settle, those dreams had stopped.

He pulled the pillow close and buried his face in it.

Yesterday, they had gone on a drive to the ocean. It was their first outing together since Tohru’s memories returned. But at the beach, Tohru had thrown a tantrum when Fujishima walked just a short distance away, and didn’t say a single word the entire drive home.

And once they got back to the apartment—he was immediately pulled into bed. What followed was so intense he’d nearly lost consciousness. It hadn’t been violent, but every touch from Tohru’s fingers felt like it carried anger. Maybe because he’d found out about the photos…

Photos from the past six years—hundreds of them. Tohru had thrown them all away.

Fujishima had cried when he found just one, still tucked between the pages of a book. Even though he knew the current Tohru would hate it, he hadn’t been able to part with it. He wasn’t some benevolent person—he couldn’t face that version of Tohru without clinging to the memories of their happiness. He’d kept the photo hidden, convinced it wouldn’t be discovered. But when he made the decision to throw it away, it had been out of sincerity toward the Tohru standing in front of him now.

When he wasn’t in sight, Tohru would cry and scream, like a baby—he couldn’t be left alone for even a moment. Their sex, too—it wasn’t so much a mutual expression of love between lovers, but something one-sided, where Fujishima was devoured and taken… like a mother giving everything to a child.

Tohru, gasping hoarsely for love, for closeness, unable to express it any other way… And even if Fujishima clung to the memory of the old Tohru for comfort, that would never bring peace to the one here and now. He knew that. But he still couldn’t let go of that last remaining photo. Even when he threw it out, he’d pick it back up. Eventually, he just left it in his coat pocket.

Yesterday, the sea breeze had been cold. When he slipped his hand into his coat pocket, the edge of the photo brushed against his fingertips. He thought—If I’m with Tohru, maybe I can finally let go.

He had to let go—for the sake of the decision he’d made, to stay with Tohru from now on.

Within less than a minute, the photograph had burned to ash, the acrid stench of chemicals pricking at his nose. Tohru had said nothing—he just stood there and watched, as the gray remains of it scattered at his feet, carried off by the wind.

…Suddenly, Fujishima realized—wait, where is Tohru?

It had been a while since he woke up, and yet he hadn’t returned. Even after sex, Tohru never went back to his own room. He never left his side, not even for a moment.

The clock by the bed read 3 a.m. It wasn’t a reasonable hour to wander to the convenience store on a whim. As Fujishima tried to climb out of bed, he felt the faint sensation of something slipping out from between his legs—Tohru’s release. He hurried to wipe it away with tissues.

It had been quite a while since they’d had sex, and yet the warmth of it still lingering felt far too real. He’d asked Tohru to use condoms, but when Tohru wanted him, he became so eager he often forgot.

Feeling chilly, Fujishima threw on just a shirt. His eyes had adjusted to the dark. He knew the layout of the apartment so well that he could walk through it without bumping into anything, and his bare feet made no sound on the floor.

When he stepped into the hallway, he noticed the door to the living room was slightly ajar. A soft light leaked through the crack. From the angle, he could see what looked like the top of Tohru’s head peeking over the back of the sofa. The television across from him was glowing, but silent. Maybe he’d fallen asleep watching it. Cigarette smoke drifted around the sofa in irregular waves.

If he’d fallen asleep with a lit cigarette, that was dangerous. Fujishima stepped into the living room. But just as he reached the back of the sofa, a heavy sigh stopped him in his tracks. Tohru was hunched forward, pressing his cigarette into the ashtray on the table. He wasn’t asleep. He sprawled out on the sofa, and when Fujishima peeked quietly over him from above, he saw him staring blankly at the screen. It looked like some kind of infomercial.

Fujishima wondered if he was being ignored—but the vacant expression on Tohru’s face was completely unguarded, and it seemed more likely he hadn’t noticed anyone had entered the room at all.

Then a faint sniffle broke the silence, and from Tohru’s eyes, a single tear spilled down. One after another, they poured out like a burst dam, and with an annoyed gesture, he wiped them away with his right hand and buried his face in the sofa. His lowered head and narrow shoulders trembled slightly.

Confusion rippled through Fujishima’s body like a wave. This was a man who had always directed all his anger and sadness outward—at him. And yet here he was now, crying alone.

Why…? Fujishima tried to make sense of it, but then a realization struck—why assume this was the first time? Maybe Tohru had done this before. Maybe he’d always cried alone. Maybe Fujishima had simply never noticed… or Tohru had simply never let it show. Slowly, he walked around to the front of the sofa.

“Tohru.”

Tohru’s head snapped up as if startled. His tear-soaked eyes were red even in the dim light, and the sight was so painful that Fujishima instinctively reached out to him—only for his hand to be forcefully slapped away.

The intensity of it startled him into stillness. But the very next second, with those same fingers, Tohru grabbed Fujishima’s wrist. He didn’t say a word of apology, but he also didn’t let go.

Fujishima didn’t know what was making him cry. Was it something he had done? Or was it something inside of Tohru himself? Was this something he should even try to reach into? He didn’t know.

Tohru wanted to be held and yet pushed him away, pushed him away and yet reached for him again. The form of it didn’t matter. The words didn’t matter. What mattered was that Tohru was seeking him. That truth remained. So Fujishima slowly closed his hand around Tohru’s.

“Come back.”

Tohru didn’t move.

“Let’s go back to bed.”

Finally, Tohru rose sluggishly to his feet and wrapped his arms around Fujishima. Fujishima, holding this man who never expressed his feelings in words, whispered comfort: “You don’t have to cry alone.”

After a while, a small voice fell beside his ear.

“…How can I learn to love myself?”

Fujishima couldn’t answer right away. In that silence, Tohru lowered his head.

“You don’t have to force it… You can stay just the way you are—”

“If I could stay like this, I wouldn’t be asking, would I?”

The words came out harsh, but the tone was thin and trembling. A sharp pain lanced through Fujishima’s chest. Pity and love mixed into something warm that filled his fingertips.

This man who cried because he wanted to change—he was so unbearably dear to him.

“I love you,” Fujishima said.

Tohru’s face showed surprise at first, but it immediately twisted into a glare. He glared hard at Fujishima… but the anger faded quickly, and his eyes dropped.

“…Liar.”

It wasn’t a lie. He wanted Tohru to believe him. People could change, if they truly wished to. And no matter what form Tohru might take, no matter how he changed, Fujishima knew—he would remain by his side.

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