On the night of one August 31 out of thousands and thousands, Kyon gets a phone call and takes a little trip and will remember none of it tomorrow.
(itsukyon, 3.7k words. content warnings for discussion of literal and metaphorical death, plus briefer discussions of suicide [with some light imagery] and animal death. crossposted on ao3.)
August 31, 6 p.m. Kyon stares at the ceiling of his bedroom.
August 31, 7 p.m. Kyon stares at the ceiling of his bedroom.
August 31, 8 p.m. Kyon stares at the ceiling of his bedroom.
He can’t see a point to moving when he’ll wake up tomorrow, unaware and almost two weeks younger, cut off from his future for the sixteen-thousand-and-whatever-eth time. This lethargy must be what it feels like to be depressed, and he wishes he was annoyed, instead; he wishes he could go back to when he was just annoyed. He wishes he was anxious, or angry, or sad. That last one comes closest, but “sad” sounds so shallow compared to the cold weight pulling down on his eyelids, his legs, his chest.
He can’t see a point because there is no point. So he’ll wake up tomorrow and not remember, and in the meantime, he tries not to think about anything at all, as if that might help.
His attempted lack of thoughts is interrupted by the ringing of his cellphone. He closes his eyes but doesn’t move, and finally the ringing stops — except it starts again almost immediately. He squeezes his eyes shut tighter, but the caller makes one, two, three more attempts until finally Kyon gives a groan of frustration and sits up, grasping with irritation at the incessant little device. He doesn’t even bother to look at the number.
“Hello?” he snaps.
“Good afternoon, Kyon,” Koizumi replies pleasantly. “Could you meet me on the roof of Nagato’s apartment building?”
Of all the voices that could have soothed him right now, Koizumi’s just makes Kyon want to throw something. He looks at his phone for a moment, fantasizing about embedding it in the drywall, then realizes that nothing is really stopping him, is it? But he’d rather not spend the last few hours before the loop restarts listening to his mother’s admonishments, so he puts the receiver back to his ear and says, “Why?”
“I’m afraid it’d be easier to explain once you get here.”
“When?”
“Immediately, if you can. Unless you’re too busy?”
Kyon grinds his teeth. Koizumi knows damn well he’s got nothing else to do. He stays quiet for as long as he can, just to keep that smiling bastard waiting, then grumbles, “I guess I can pencil it in.”
He hangs up before Koizumi has the chance to respond. It feels good to shut him up — the best he’s felt all day.
He considers standing Koizumi up or running late, just to piss him off. The thought of that polite, charming boy leaning against the railing of that roof, frowning with his furrowed eyebrows and his sweat-damp (and hopefully sunburnt) summer skin, gives him a rush of schadenfreude-laden joy. He isn’t sure why; Koizumi hasn’t done anything wrong, really, it’s just the way his voice sounds, so smooth and unbothered that it’s almost smug. Kyon reminds himself that Koizumi is just as stuck as he is. Besides, lying in bed for so long has left his skin feeling sticky and hot. He stands slowly.
As Kyon shambles through his living room, his eyes catch on the fishbowl next to the door. The little orange fish inside it had been the product of so much effort on his part that Haruhi allowed him to keep it — as if he had even wanted the thing. But he took it home anyway, almost without realizing, and now his sister is attached to it.
The fishbowl is tiny, and as Kyon pauses to watch the orange splotch swim around and around, he can’t help but feel a stab of pity. In such a small, plain bowl, it can’t go anywhere; it can’t even change its trajectory very much. It just swims in circles. This has never occurred to him before.
He could buy it a bigger tank, if he can think of a place to put it. But no — they won’t have the fish come tomorrow.
Kyon takes his time on the trip to Nagato’s apartment building, letting the humid summer air wash over him as the sound of cicadas wraps in on itself again and again until it’s a blanket, covering his ears, droning on and on and on until every other sound is blocked out. When the thought of listening to it for another second starts to feel unbearable, he speeds up, and then he starts to think.
Why did Koizumi invite him out like this? He had called Kyon’s phone — what, five times? Six? It must be important. Suddenly, it dawns on him: Could Koizumi have discovered a way to end the time loop? The prospect squeezes at his chest, desperate, and he quickens his pace until the building is upon him.
When he arrives on the roof, his clothes are thin with sweat and his sides are heaving from running up all the stairs. Everything is empty except for Koizumi, facing Kyon from where he sits across from the door with his back against the railing. He smiles, but he doesn’t otherwise move, and Kyon wonders, disturbed, how long Koizumi has been sitting in that spot, watching for his arrival.
The sky is wide above them, and the stars are as bright as they’ve always been.
“Have you figured it out?” Kyon pants. “How to end the time loop?”
Koizumi raises his eyebrows in (surely false) surprise. “When did I ever say that?”
“Have you?”
“No.”
All the energy seems to leave Kyon’s body right then, but somehow, he doesn’t really feel surprised. He trudges over to Koizumi, still catching his breath, and mutters, “You lying bastard.”
“I never lied to you. It seems like you jumped to conclusions,” Koizumi protests, the smile never leaving his face. He leans away like he’s afraid Kyon’s going to hit him, but the movement is too casual to be genuine.
“What else was I supposed to assume? You called me five times. I thought it was urgent.”
“I can tell,” Koizumi comments. His eyes run over Kyon’s body — noting his sweat-drenched clothes, no doubt, with an amused detachment that makes Kyon curl in on himself. “Actually, it is urgent.”
“Out with it, then.”
Koizumi watches him for a moment then stands, turning to look out over the city. He’s wearing a brown tweed jacket, for some reason, with a pink button-down, and it annoys Kyon. The expression on his face, meanwhile, is unreadable.
“It’s almost nine,” he says finally, eyes drifting up from the city to the sky. “The world will reset in just over three hours, and the past week or so might as well have never happened. Only Nagato will remember. Isn’t it strange?”
That doesn’t answer Kyon’s question, of course, and he’s about to say so before Koizumi continues, “Pardon my honesty, but I’ve been restless all day. The idea that we’re going to forget all of this at the stroke of midnight — it disturbs me. I’ve never been particularly afraid of death — not more than the next person — but it’s coming in mere hours, and that knowledge is unnerving. In a way, we’re going to die. These versions of us will die. After all, what is any human but a collection of memories and feelings? The memories that we’ve collected over the past few days, the experiences we’ve had together, they’ll cease to exist soon, and when they do, the versions of us who lived through them will, too. The thoughts we have now will be obliterated. The people who wake up in our beds tomorrow will be different. Isn’t it strange?”
Kyon frowns. He doesn’t want to think about this, but he understands; he can’t help it. “Yeah, it’s strange. But what can we do?”
Koizumi turns his head and looks at Kyon. He’s still smiling, but it looks even faker than usual, and for a long second he doesn’t reply.
“Nothing,” he admits, finally. “Whatever chance we had to change things has already passed; you must be able to feel that as well as I can. I’ve given up entirely. For now, though, we have a few hours left before we die, and I’d like to be awake to see what happens when the world ends, even if I can’t remember it tomorrow. I don’t think I could sleep even if I tried, anyway. I felt that spending this time together would be better than spending it apart, since the end result won’t change.”
A wave of irritation hits Kyon before he can process the implications of Koizumi’s words. “Those are just your feelings, Koizumi. I wouldn’t call them urgent.”
“On the contrary, nothing could possibly be more urgent,” Koizumi argues, his smile widening. “The ending is already set in stone, and nothing we do can deviate all that much from its path; we have nothing except our feelings. If we aren’t going to indulge them some, there’s nothing left for us to do. Trust me, Kyon, I’m very serious about this.”
“I don’t like how vulnerable you’re being right now,” Kyon blurts.
Koizumi blinks, and the smile actually falls from his face for a split-second before it’s back as if nothing happened. He sort of laughs. “Was it that obvious? I’m sorry. I hope you can find it in yourself to forgive me — I’d rather not be left alone.”
Kyon doesn’t know what to say to that, so he just leans his arms down against the railing and looks at the city, the sky, anywhere that isn’t Koizumi. Suddenly, it occurs to him. “This is Nagato’s apartment building. Where is she?”
“When I decided I wanted to meet up, she was the first person I asked, naturally; it is her home, after all. I made it clear that it was up to her whether she joined me or not, and she said I was free to use this space, but she wouldn’t be coming.”
“I wonder why,” Kyon says, frowning.
Koizumi shrugs. “She’s lived through this same day hundreds of times. Maybe she’d rather not do this again if she doesn’t have to.”
“But surely she’s suffering more than any of us.”
“You’re probably right, but what can we do about that? If she prefers to spend the night alone, I can’t blame her.”
Kyon goes quiet again. Then, “What about the others?”
“I couldn’t invite Miss Suzumiya, obviously. It’s nothing personal, but we can’t talk about the time loop with her around, and there’s nothing else to talk about, really.” He pauses. “Which leaves you, me, and Asahina. Again, it’s nothing personal, but Asahina has been inconsolable ever since she discovered she can’t return to the future, and I don’t wish for that extra stress as I’m dying. Besides, I’m not sure if third-wheeling for the two of you would make for my ideal last moments, either.”
“You’re not dying, though,” Kyon argues crossly. He elects to ignore the third-wheeling comment.
“The person I am tonight is,” Koizumi replies without missing a beat. “The person I am tonight won’t ever wake up again. The same is true of you. I thought I explained it well enough that you’d be able to understand.”
“I do understand,” Kyon snaps, “I just don’t want to think of it that way.”
Koizumi huffs out something like a laugh, then turns back to look out over the city. He’s quiet for such a long time that Kyon wonders if he’s going to speak again, but finally, he says with some hesitation, “I’m glad you understand. I’m sure you’ve noticed by now that I often… talk to you at length when I’m explaining things. This may not be obvious, but I usually rehearse ahead of time.”
He seems like he’s about to continue but doesn’t. Kyon feels oddly embarrassed.
It gets quiet after that, and Kyon can’t stand it. He’s afraid that he’ll look at Koizumi and see his face all quiet and pensive, red from the heat, eyes distant like he just told Kyon something personal, which maybe he did. Maybe his discomfort is what Koizumi wants, just to get him to say something, just to get him to acknowledge the odd confession. But what is he supposed to say? That Koizumi is eloquent? He is, but that’s nothing new, and it only ever pisses Kyon off. That he’s sorry Koizumi goes through such efforts for him? He’s not; it’s Koizumi’s own fault. Something else? Like what?
He decides to change the topic altogether. “What would you have done if I hadn’t showed up?”
“Were you planning not to?” Koizumi asks.
Kyon scowls because Koizumi knows the answer, and Kyon knows that, and Koizumi knows that Kyon knows that, the smug fucker. Still, he grumbles, “No. But what if?”
Koizumi pauses, as if he’s actually mulling the question over, then says, “I suppose I would’ve jumped off the roof.”
That was the last answer Kyon expected, and his stomach drops painfully. He turns to look at Koizumi without meaning to, as if his expression will tell him anything, but no, he’s still just gazing out at the horizon like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, calm.
“You’re not serious,” Kyon begs.
Another pause, then a quiet laugh, barely a chuckle. “You’re right. I don’t have the courage for that; what if it stuck? I don’t want to die.”
“No one does,” Kyon responds lamely, and Koizumi just shrugs his shoulders.
Neither of them say anything else. Koizumi’s silence is almost disturbing, but Kyon suddenly feels so nauseous that it doesn’t matter. First he sees the image of Koizumi’s body, broken and bloody and unnatural on the sidewalk, hears his voice, I don’t want to die. Then he sees the ceiling of his room above him. His sister’s goldfish, swimming in circles in its little fishbowl. We have nothing except our feelings. If he had bought it a better tank earlier on, at least it could’ve had a pleasant week in Kyon’s house before the world resets. Cicadas. I don’t want to die.
The sky suddenly feels like a closed dome and Kyon realizes he can’t stand to look at it anymore, so he turns around and sinks down until he’s sitting with his back to the railing, just like Koizumi was when he first got here. The rest of the roof is still empty, and Koizumi sits next to him.
How long do they sit there? Minutes? Hours? Hundreds of years? It’s not midnight yet, but he’s not sure if it matters. Nagato said before that the details of each loop differ. Have he and Koizumi done this before? How many times? Will they do it again? Will either of them ever know? They won’t, most likely, and that’s fine, because Kyon isn’t sure he wants to. He wishes it was over already because every second makes him dizzy, and every second feels so long. What time is it?
“Kyon,” Koizumi says, finally.
“What?”
“Have you ever been kissed? In the real world, I mean.”
What.
Kyon coughs hard, suddenly not dizzy anymore. He turns to stare at Koizumi, who is looking at him but still smiling, and lets his jaw hang slack with shock. “What did you say?”
“I asked if you’ve ever been kissed before,” Koizumi repeats.
“Why the hell are you asking me that?” Kyon splutters, suddenly very aware of Koizumi’s mouth.
“I kissed someone in middle school once,” Koizumi pushes on as if Kyon hadn’t spoken. “It… Ah, it wasn’t all that nice, if you can believe that, but I don’t think anyone knows how to kiss in middle school. It never led to anything. I’ve never actually had a real relationship.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
Koizumi’s mouth twitches. “Do you want to kiss me?”
Kyon stares for one second, two. His brain makes dial-up noises. Welcome to the SOS Brigade website!
“Do you want to kiss me?” Koizumi repeats, at the exact same moment that Kyon blurts, “I’m not gay.”
Koizumi blinks. “What did you say?”
“I said I’m not gay.”
Koizumi’s mouth twitches again, and then his smile actually widens for a moment. “And?”
“I’m not bisexual either.”
“Are you sure?”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” Koizumi says, and his smile morphs into a rare, serious line. “That’s alright. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
All that Kyon can do, it seems, is stare. He’s suddenly aware that his face is burning up and his mouth feels awfully dry. The dizziness, though, the nausea, are both gone. He doesn’t know how to feel or what to say, so he just mutters, “You’re making fun of me.”
“No,” Koizumi says with more feeling than Kyon is used to. What feeling that is, exactly, isn’t clear, but his face is still serious. “I’m not making fun of you. Don’t worry about it — we don’t need to argue. There’s less than an hour left now, and I’d rather spend it… peacefully. Just forget I said anything.”
Koizumi looks off into the distance somewhere with a pensive expression on his face, but Kyon can’t wrench his eyes away from him. His heart is pounding and his thoughts are racing so fast that he can barely keep up with them, but he doesn’t feel disgusted or angry like he expects to. Disgusted or angry, no. Distressed, yes — but he can’t put his finger on what type of distress. He almost hates Koizumi for doing this, for making everything so difficult and wrong, but the look on his face is so sad that Kyon just feels disturbed. Koizumi has always been a liar, and for a second Kyon wonders if his sadness is just a ploy to change his mind, but it can’t be, because it’s clear from the way his jaw is set that he’s trying to hide it.
Koizumi isn’t meant to look sad, Kyon realizes with an itch in his throat. He’s always got that same smile on his too-handsome face, and sometimes (often) Kyon wishes he could see that smile crumble into something tragic just for the satisfaction of piercing through his good-boy act, but this feels — bad. Not just wrong in its strangeness, but painful, too. Maybe he’d like to see Koizumi annoyed or angry or nervous, but he doesn’t like seeing him sad.
Do you want to kiss me? He hears it for a third time, this one just in his head. Now that his shock has faded, the question sends a current through him, spinning his stomach around and growing thorns around his neck. Even the slight breeze can’t cool the summer air.
Koizumi is handsome. This is a fact. Kyon has acknowledged this before because it is a fact. Koizumi’s face is so well-sculpted that it’s shocking it’s not intentional (or maybe it is, Haruhi). Koizumi’s nose is slim and straight, his teeth are white, his eyes are clear, his hair is perfect, his skin is smooth, his lips are shapely and must be soft. Kyon has always known it. Sometimes it crosses his mind, but he doesn’t dwell on it. The thought of dwelling on it horrifies him.
He resents Koizumi. He really does.
Less than an hour blocks Kyon from the complete obliteration of the him that exists right now; less than an hour separates Kyon from the moment he will disappear from his own memory. None of these thoughts will remain. Not a minute of this struggle will persist. Maybe that’s a good thing, because he isn’t sure if he could see Koizumi’s face in the clubroom every day with this knowledge. Maybe it’s a good thing.
Even though it’s late, he is wide awake. Even though it could be a good thing, he’s afraid.
It’s summer. Kyon remembers their visit to the pool days ago, and the feeling of the cool water on his skin relieves him for a moment before it becomes agonizing in its absence. He imagines himself swimming. He imagines himself swimming around in circles, around and around and around, in Haruhi’s little communal pool. He imagines himself pressing his hands up against that great empty dome of the sky, and he wonders what lies beyond it. How many times has he lived through this moment? How many times can you repeat an experience before it loses its meaning? Does the meaning return if you forget the experience? Does he feel ill?
He imagines flushing that fish down the toilet.
Koizumi stirs next to him as if he’s about to speak, and Kyon grabs him by the lapel of his jacket and kisses him.
It’s not a smooth thing. His lips smush awkwardly against Koizumi’s, and the other boy doesn’t move, doesn’t even breathe. Koizumi’s lips are soft, and finally he shifts, cupping Kyon’s cheek with a surprising hesitancy for someone so charming. His fingers are gentle at first, maybe fearful — certainly fearful, then, as they press down harder into the skin behind his ear. They’re shaking, and Koizumi opens his mouth, inviting, and Kyon accepts. He puts his hand hesitantly on Koizumi’s arm.
His thoughts have almost caught up with him when he’s distracted by the increasingly strong trembling of Koizumi’s arm and then, suddenly, the other boy is spluttering. Kyon reels back, wondering what the hell he did wrong, when he realizes that Koizumi is—
“What the hell are you laughing about?” Kyon snaps, realizing now how hot his face has become. He’s an idiot. He’s an idiot.
Koizumi’s laugh is uneven and frantic, and he scrubs at his face with his hands. His voice is desperate in a way that Kyon has never heard it as he gasps, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s not you. I’m not — I’m not laughing at you.”
Kyon’s anger is replaced by concern, but a host of other feelings remain, cold and hot at the same time, paralyzing him and begging him to move. He manages, “What is it, then?”
“I just—” Koizumi cuts himself off and drops his hands. His breathing slows and he tilts his head back, as if looking at the stars. His eyes are closed. “This is the only way, isn’t it?”
“The only way?” Kyon repeats, furrowing his eyebrows.
“It’s fine. It doesn’t matter.” Koizumi drops his head back to eye level and takes a deep breath. He puts his hand on Kyon’s shoulder. “We don’t even have half an hour left, you know. We ought to make it count.”
Despite himself, Kyon finds himself agreeing; he can’t imagine not agreeing anymore. He scoots closer to Koizumi and leans in once more, squeezing his eyes shut, until their mouths meet again. For a while, he makes it count.
