HOLD ON
TILL MAY - 西村力
As the sun went down we ended up on the ground
In which: you’re growing up in a rough neighborhood beside the train tracks, you meet Riki on a fire escape, and from then on, he becomes the one constant in your life. You grow up together, sharing secrets, quiet moments, and promises while you hide the things happening at home. As everything gets harder, you cling to one promise: when you turn eighteen, you’ll leave together. But sometimes, wanting a future isn’t always enough to make it there.
Genre - Angst, childhood friends to lovers, hurt/comfort, slow burn, dark romance, established relationship.
Pairing - 西村力 x fem!reader
WC: estimated to be around 20-25k+
Warnings!! - Domestic abuse, child abuse, emotional abuse, physical abuse, neglect, alcoholism, trauma, suicidal thoughts, self-harm, suicide attempt, major character death, grief, hospital scenes, panic, crying, violence, kissing, making out, romantic intimacy, underage characters
EPILOUGE
10.12.06
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AGE SIX — THE UNBEARABLE SUMMER.
The summer you met Riki was unbearably hot, the kind of heat that wrapped around your skin like a wet blanket and made the air shimmer above the pavement. You would remember that heat for years afterward, even when you couldn't remember what you'd eaten for breakfast the day before or where you'd left your shoes. The metal railing beneath your palms was almost too warm to touch, conducting the sun's intensity directly into your palms until they felt slightly burned, and sweat had gathered along your hairline until loose strands of hair stuck against your forehead in damp curls. Your knees were dusty from the concrete steps you'd climbed, one of your socks had slipped down inside your shoe to bunch uncomfortably around your toes, and you had a tiny scrape on your elbow from climbing past a section of railing that had been bent outward by older kids who'd come before you. You hadn't meant to climb that high. At least, that's what you would tell your mother when she eventually noticed you were missing from the apartment and started calling your name from the street below. You'd only wanted to see the trains. Earlier that afternoon, you'd heard one pass behind the buildings, that rhythmic clacking that sounded like giant metal heartbeats, and you'd become suddenly, desperately determined to see where it went. You'd followed the fire escape upward, one level at a time, gripping the hot metal rails and pulling yourself onto each successive platform until you could see over the rooftops and into the distance where the tracks curved away toward parts of the city you'd never visited. It had seemed like a brilliant idea at first, an adventure, something worth the risk of your mother's anger. Then you'd looked down.
"Oh," you whispered, the sound barely audible even to yourself. The pavement suddenly looked much farther away than it had from the ground, a dizzying expanse of concrete that seemed to tilt beneath your gaze. Your stomach dropped somewhere toward your shoes. You carefully moved one foot backward, seeking the platform you'd just left, but your sneaker found only empty air. The metal beneath you groaned, a low, protesting sound that vibrated through your bones. You froze, absolutely still, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.
"Okay," you murmured, swallowing hard around the fear that had risen in your throat. "That's fine. Everything's fine."
You looked behind you. The wider platform where you'd started seemed impossibly far away now, separated by a gap that had looked like nothing from below but now appeared to be miles of empty space. You tried taking another step and immediately changed your mind, your courage evaporating like water on hot stone.
"Nope," you whispered, your voice trembling. "Nope, nope, nope."
You stood there for several seconds that felt like hours, pretending you weren't scared, pretending you were exactly where you meant to be, pretending that you weren't six years old and stuck on a fire escape four stories above the ground. Then you heard the sound of shoes scraping against metal, the rhythmic clang of someone climbing with confidence and speed. You turned your head, careful not to shift your weight too suddenly.
A boy was climbing up from the level below. He had dark hair that fell messily over his forehead in a way that suggested he'd cut it himself or someone had cut it without caring much about the result. He wore scraped knees that were already scarred from previous adventures, and an oversized shirt that looked as though it belonged to someone older, maybe a brother or a father, the fabric hanging loose around his narrow frame. He stopped when he saw you, his hand still gripping the rail, his body suspended in a moment of perfect balance. His eyes moved from your face to your feet and then down toward the pavement below, calculating distances and possibilities with a sharpness that seemed beyond his years.
"Hey," he said.
You stared at him, unsure whether to be relieved or embarrassed. "Hi."
He pointed toward the edge with his free hand. "You're gonna fall."
You looked down again, against your better judgment. "I know."
"Then why are you standing there?"
"I'm stuck."
His eyebrows pulled together, creating a small line between them. "How?"
"I climbed up."
"Then climb down."
"I don't know how."
He stared at you for a few seconds, clearly trying to decide whether you were serious or playing some kind of game. You crossed your arms over your chest, trying to look defiant despite your precarious position.
"Stop looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like I'm stupid."
"I wasn't."
"You were."
He sighed, a sound of exaggerated patience that seemed to come from someone much older. "Okay. You're not stupid."
You narrowed your eyes, trying to read his expression. "You don't sound like you mean it."
"I mean it."
"You still sound like you're lying."
He rolled his eyes, but there was the smallest hint of a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, a crack in his serious expression. "Just stay there."
"I'm not moving."
"Good."
He climbed carefully across the railing, moving with an ease that made your stomach clench with worry. You immediately became anxious watching him, your fear transferring from yourself to this strange boy who seemed to have no sense of danger.
"You're going to fall," you called out.
"I'm not."
"You could."
"I won't."
"How do you know?"
He looked at you then, really looked at you, and you saw something in his expression that you couldn't quite name. Certainty, maybe. Or trust in his own body that you didn't yet have in yours. "Because I know how to climb."
"That doesn't mean you can't fall."
He paused, considering this, his hand wrapped around a vertical rail. "…That's true."
You smiled despite yourself, a small victory in this strange conversation. He reached toward you, his palm open and waiting. "Give me your hand."
You looked at his palm. There was a small cut across it, still red around the edges, the kind of injury that came from grabbing something sharp without thinking. "You're bleeding."
He looked down at his own hand as if noticing it for the first time. "Oh."
"You didn't notice?"
"No."
"How?"
He shrugged, that careless gesture again. "Didn't hurt."
"You're weird."
"You're the one stuck on a fire escape."
You gasped, offended. "I'm not stuck anymore."
"You haven't moved."
"Because you told me not to."
He stared at you, then laughed quietly, a sound that surprised you with its warmth. "Okay. Fair."
You finally reached for him. His fingers closed around yours, warm and firm and slightly rough from whatever he'd been doing before he found you, and the fear in your stomach eased almost immediately, replaced by something else you couldn't yet name.
"Okay," he said, his voice steady. "Step here."
You moved your foot carefully, trusting him more than you trusted yourself.
"Good. Now here."
You followed him, one step at a time, your hand clutched in his like a lifeline.
"Don't look down."
You looked down.
"Why did you do that?" he asked, not unkindly.
"I wanted to see."
"See what?"
"How far it is."
"And?"
You swallowed, your mouth dry. "Very far."
"Yeah. So don't look down."
"Okay."
You moved again. The metal creaked beneath you and you instinctively tightened your grip around his hand, your fingers digging into his skin. He noticed but didn't say anything. Instead, he moved closer so that his shoulder was almost touching yours, creating a barrier between you and the edge.
"You're okay," he murmured, his voice low and certain. "Just one more."
You stepped onto the wider platform, your feet finding solid, safe ground beneath you. The moment your feet were securely underneath you, you let out a huge breath you hadn't realized you'd been holding and sat down hard on the concrete, your legs suddenly too weak to support you. He sat beside you, his back against the wall, his knees drawn up to his chest. Neither of you spoke for several seconds, the silence filled with the distant sound of traffic and the beating of your own heart.
Then you looked at him, really looked at him, taking in the details you'd missed before. The small scar above his eyebrow. The way his ears stuck out slightly. The dirt under his fingernails. "What's your name?"
"Riki."
"Just Riki?"
"Yeah."
"That's a weird name."
He frowned, his expression closing slightly. "You have a weird name too."
"Mine isn't weird."
"It is."
"No."
"Yes."
You stared at him, trying to decide if you were angry or amused. "I don't like you."
He shrugged, apparently unmoved by this declaration. "Okay."
You waited, expecting more. "You're supposed to say sorry."
"Why?"
"Because I said I don't like you."
"But you do."
Your mouth opened, then closed, caught off guard by his certainty. "I don't."
"You do."
"I don't."
He smiled then, a real smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "You do."
You tried not to smile back. You failed.
After that, you started seeing him everywhere. Sometimes he was sitting on the steps outside his building with a stick in his hand, drawing shapes in the dirt that you couldn't quite identify, abstract patterns that seemed to mean something to him even if they meant nothing to you. Sometimes he was walking along the alleyway with his hands shoved into his pockets, his shoulders hunched as if he were carrying something heavy even when his hands were empty. Sometimes he was on the rooftop, balancing along the edge despite having been told repeatedly by several adults that he shouldn't, that he was going to get himself killed, that he was going to fall and break his neck. The first few times you saw him, you weren't sure whether you should say hello or pretend you didn't recognize him. Eventually, he made the decision for you.
"Hey."
You looked over from where you'd been examining a crack in the pavement. "Hi."
"You're here again."
"You are too."
"I live here."
"So do I."
He considered that, his head tilting slightly. "Oh."
"Oh?"
"Then I guess I'll see you a lot."
You smiled, feeling something warm settle in your chest. "Probably."
It became a routine before either of you realized it was happening. You would meet after school, somehow always finding each other without making specific plans. Sometimes you played games with the other children in the neighbourhood, running through the streets in chaotic packs, but you always ended up wandering away together, drawn to each other like magnets finding their match. Sometimes you'd find an abandoned cardboard box and turn it into a house, a castle, a spaceship, a submarine, the structure changing based on whatever story you decided to tell. Sometimes you'd collect bottle caps from the ground and decide they were coins, currency from some imaginary kingdom where you were rich and powerful and could buy anything you wanted. Sometimes you simply sat on the pavement and watched people walk past, making up stories about where they were going and why.
Riki wasn't especially talkative. You were the opposite. You talked about everything, filling the silence with words the way some people filled empty spaces with furniture. You told him about the teacher you liked, the one who smelled like vanilla and always had stickers in her desk. You told him about the girl in your class who always stole the best crayons, the red and the blue ones, leaving only the broken brown and gray for everyone else. You told him that you thought clouds looked like animals if you stared at them long enough, that you could see rabbits and dragons and elephants floating across the sky. You told him that you were certain the moon followed you when you walked home, keeping watch over you like a silent guardian.
"It doesn't," Riki said one afternoon, looking up at the pale shape of the moon visible in the blue sky.
"It does."
"It's just there."
"Then why does it follow me?"
"Because you're moving."
"That's following me."
"No."
"Yes."
He sighed, a sound you were already learning to recognize as his particular brand of affectionate exasperation. "You're impossible."
"You're boring."
He looked offended, genuinely wounded by the accusation. "I'm not boring."
"You are."
"I climbed a three-storey fire escape yesterday."
"That's dangerous."
"You climbed it too."
"I was with you."
"Still dangerous."
"You sound like my mother."
He laughed, the sound carrying down the empty street. "Maybe someone has to."
Your friendship grew through ordinary things, through accumulated moments that seemed insignificant at the time but would later shine like small jewels in your memory. That was what made it different from the friendships you'd seen at school, the ones that were declared loudly and publicly, sealed with matching bracelets and solemn vows. Nobody declared that you were best friends. Nobody exchanged bracelets or promised to be friends forever in blood or ink or playground ceremonies. You simply started saving a seat for each other on the steps. You started looking for each other when you arrived outside, your eyes scanning the familiar spaces until they found his familiar shape. If one of you had food, the other got some, automatically, without discussion or hesitation. If one of you got hurt, the other stayed until the crying stopped, offering silent presence rather than empty words. If you found something interesting, a strange rock or a feather or a bug with too many legs, you immediately thought about showing it to the other, already anticipating their reaction before you'd even moved.
One rainy afternoon, you both got caught outside without jackets, the sky opening up suddenly and without warning, sending sheets of water down upon the city. You ran through the alley, laughing as water soaked through your clothes, your shoes squelching with every step. Riki slipped on the wet pavement and nearly fell, his arms windmilling for balance. You grabbed his arm, your fingers closing around his wrist with surprising strength.
"Got you!"
He looked down at your hand around his wrist, then up at your face. "You did."
"You're welcome."
"I wasn't going to fall."
"You were."
"I wasn't."
"You definitely were."
He shook his wet hair out like a dog, spraying water everywhere, droplets catching the light and creating tiny rainbows that lasted only a second. You screamed, throwing your hands up to protect your face.
"Riki!"
He laughed, his whole face transformed by joy. "What?"
"You got me wet!"
"You're already wet!"
"That doesn't mean you can make it worse!"
He ran away, his sneakers splashing through puddles. You chased him, your laughter mixing with the sound of the rain. "Come back!"
"Catch me!"
You spent the next ten minutes running through the rain, ducking beneath awnings and darting back out, until both of you were exhausted and breathless, your chests heaving and your faces flushed. Eventually you collapsed beneath the awning of a closed shop, your backs against the cool metal of the shuttered door. Your breathing came in little bursts, too fast and too loud. Riki looked at you and started laughing again, pointing at your head.
"What?" you asked, touching your hair self-consciously.
"Your hair."
"What about it?"
"You look like a bird."
You touched your hair and felt the wild tangles, the strands that had escaped your ponytail and now stuck out in every direction. "So do you."
"I don't."
"You do."
He smiled, accepting the compliment or the insult or whatever it was. "Maybe."
You both sat there until the rain slowed from a downpour to a drizzle to a whisper, watching the water create rivers in the gutters and listening to the city wash itself clean.
At home, things were already beginning to change, although you didn't have the words for what you were witnessing. Your parents argued sometimes. You thought every family did. You thought every father occasionally slammed doors and every mother sometimes went quiet after dinner, staring at her plate as if it contained something terrible. You thought it was normal to listen carefully to footsteps before leaving your bedroom, to gauge the mood of the house by the sound of breathing in the next room. You didn't realize how much of your behaviour was already shaped by the atmosphere inside your apartment, how you'd learned to read tension in the set of shoulders and anger in the way a door closed. You learned not to ask questions when your father looked angry, his jaw tight and his eyes dark. You learned to keep your voice quiet when your mother looked exhausted, her face pale and her movements slow. You learned that sometimes it was better to eat in your bedroom, away from the tension that gathered in the kitchen like smoke. You learned to finish homework before the shouting began because once it started, concentrating became impossible, the words breaking through the walls like physical things.
Riki noticed things before you did, or perhaps he simply acknowledged what you preferred to ignore. One afternoon, the two of you were sitting on the steps outside your building when you heard shouting from inside, your father's voice raised in that particular way that made your stomach clench. You immediately stopped talking, mid-sentence, your words dying in your throat.
Riki looked at you. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"You're doing that thing."
"What thing?"
"Going quiet."
"I'm not."
"You are."
You stared at your shoes, willing the shouting to stop, willing yourself to become invisible. The shouting became louder, words you couldn't quite make out but didn't need to, the tone enough to tell you everything. Your shoulders tightened, rising toward your ears as if to protect you.
Riki watched you for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he reached over and quietly took your hand, his fingers threading through yours with gentle certainty.
"You don't have to go inside yet."
You looked at him, surprised by the permission he was giving you. "I have to."
"Why?"
"Because my mum will get angry."
"Then wait."
You looked toward the building, toward the windows that seemed to watch you with judgment. "What if she needs me?"
"Then she'll come out."
You swallowed, considering this possibility. "Okay."
You stayed beside him until the voices became quieter, until the storm inside passed and left behind the heavy silence that always followed. Neither of you mentioned it afterward, but something had shifted, some understanding had passed between you that didn't require words.
The first time Riki came inside your apartment was because you'd forgotten your notebook. You'd been halfway down the street when you realized it, your hand going to your bag and finding the space where it should have been empty.
"Wait."
Riki stopped, turning back toward you. "What?"
"My notebook."
"So?"
"I need it."
"Tomorrow."
"No, I need it today."
He groaned, a sound of theatrical suffering. "Fine."
You ran upstairs, and he followed, his footsteps heavy on the stairs behind you. When you opened the door, your mother was standing in the kitchen, her hands in the sink. Her expression changed when she saw Riki, something flickering across her face that you couldn't read.
"Who's this?"
You immediately became nervous, your voice coming out higher than usual. "My friend."
Riki stood awkwardly behind you, his body tense. "Hi."
Your mother looked at him for a long moment, her eyes assessing, before turning back toward the kitchen with a dismissive gesture. "Get your notebook."
"Okay."
You hurried to your room, and Riki followed, closing the door behind him. Once the door shut, he whispered, "She's scary."
You giggled, clapping a hand over your mouth to muffle the sound. "Don't say that."
"I didn't say it loudly."
"She'll hear you."
"Okay."
He looked around your room, his eyes taking in the small space, the bed with its worn blanket, the desk with its pile of books, the window that looked out onto the fire escape. "This is yours?"
"Yeah."
"It's small."
You frowned, feeling defensive. "I know."
"I didn't mean it badly."
"You did."
"I didn't."
You threw a pillow at him, the soft projectile catching him in the chest. He caught it before it fell, his reflexes quick.
"Hey!"
"Give it back."
"No."
"Riki."
"Say please."
"Please."
He handed it over immediately, his expression serious. You stared at him. "That was easy."
"I like when you say please."
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling.
As summer began fading into autumn, the heat breaking into something cooler and more bearable, the two of you became inseparable without ever discussing it or naming it. You walked to school together whenever you could, your steps falling into rhythm without conscious thought. On colder mornings, you'd complain about your hands being freezing, and Riki would wordlessly give you one of his gloves, keeping the other for himself.
"What about your other hand?" you'd ask, your hand already warm inside the too-large glove.
"I've got pockets."
"That's not fair."
"Life isn't fair."
"You're annoying."
"I know."
At lunch, you would sit together whenever there was space, your shoulders touching, your heads bent over your food. After school, you'd take the long way home, looping through streets that added ten minutes to your journey just so you could spend more time together. Sometimes you stopped at a small shop on the corner and pooled your coins to buy something sweet, counting your combined resources with serious concentration.
You always wanted the same thing, the strawberry candy that came in bright red wrappers. Riki always pretended he didn't.
"You want the strawberry one."
"No."
"You do."
"I don't."
"Then I'll get it."
"Fine."
"Aha."
"I said fine."
You'd grin and hand him the money, your fingers brushing his. "You owe me."
"For what?"
"The strawberry one."
"You chose it."
"Because you wanted it."
"You can't prove that."
"I don't need to."
He'd smile and hand you half, the candy sweet and sticky on your tongue.
The first real argument you had happened over a broken toy. You'd found a little plastic figure in an alley, half-buried in dirt, and decided it belonged to you through the sacred law of finders keepers. Riki thought it was ugly.
"It's not ugly."
"It is."
"It's cute."
"Its head is too big."
"That's why it's cute."
"That's not how cute works."
You glared at him, clutching the toy to your chest. "You don't understand anything."
"I understand that it's ugly."
"Fine."
You threw it onto the ground, the plastic bouncing against the concrete with a hollow sound. Riki's expression changed immediately, his eyes widening.
"Why'd you do that?"
"Because you said it was ugly."
"I didn't mean you had to throw it."
"You made me mad."
"I was joking."
"Well, I wasn't."
You walked away, your feet carrying you toward home without conscious direction. He followed, his footsteps quick behind you.
"Wait."
You kept walking, your jaw set.
"Hey."
Nothing.
"Come on."
You stopped suddenly, spinning around to face him. "Go away."
He stared at you, hurt visible in his eyes. "Okay."
He walked in the opposite direction, his shoulders stiff, his hands in his pockets. You watched him go, immediately regretting everything, your anger evaporating and leaving only remorse behind. You waited five minutes, hoping he'd come back. Then ten. Eventually you found him sitting on the steps outside his building, his chin in his hands, looking smaller than usual. You approached slowly, your footsteps loud in your own ears.
"Riki?"
He looked up, his expression guarded. "What?"
"I'm sorry."
His expression softened, the hurt fading. "Me too."
You sat beside him, close enough that your shoulders touched. "I shouldn't have thrown it."
"I shouldn't have called it ugly."
"It was ugly."
He smiled, a small thing but genuine. "I know."
You laughed, the sound breaking the tension. "You're horrible."
"Probably."
Winter came slowly, the days becoming shorter and darker, the light leaving the sky earlier each evening. You started spending more time indoors, which you hated, the walls of your apartment feeling closer than they had in summer. You'd often find excuses to stay out until the sky turned dark, helping with errands that didn't need doing, walking in circles around the block, anything to delay the moment when you had to go inside. Riki never asked why you lingered. He simply stayed with you, keeping you company in the gathering dusk.
Sometimes the two of you sat in the stairwell because it was warmer than outside, the enclosed space holding heat like a secret. Sometimes he brought an old blanket to the rooftop and you wrapped yourselves in it while watching the lights from the city come alive one by one, a constellation of human creation spread out below you.
One night, the two of you lay side by side beneath the blanket, staring at the stars that were visible despite the city's light pollution. Your breath misted in the cold air, small clouds that rose and disappeared.
"Do you think we'll live here forever?" you asked, the question suddenly urgent.
Riki turned his head toward you, his profile sharp against the dark sky. "No."
"How do you know?"
"Because we'll leave."
You smiled, liking the certainty in his voice. "Where will we go?"
"Somewhere else."
"That's not specific."
"Somewhere with less trains."
You frowned, offended on behalf of the trains you'd come to love. "I like the trains."
"You complain about them."
"I complain about everything."
"Exactly."
You laughed quietly, the sound swallowed by the night. He looked back toward the sky, his eyes tracking a plane as it passed overhead, its lights blinking.
"Maybe somewhere near the ocean."
Your eyes widened, the possibility expanding in your imagination. "Really?"
"Maybe."
"I've never seen the ocean."
"Neither have I."
"Do you think it's big?"
"Probably."
"Bigger than the city?"
"Definitely."
You smiled, the expression feeling permanent. "Then we'll go there."
Riki nodded, his head moving against the concrete. "Okay."
You held out your pinky, the gesture suddenly serious. "Promise?"
He hooked his around yours, the contact warm and binding. "Promise."
You didn't understand what promises meant yet, not really. To you, they were simple things, words that bound the future into manageable shapes. Tomorrow meant tomorrow. Next week meant next week. Growing up seemed impossibly far away, a distant country you had no interest in visiting. Eighteen sounded ancient, an age you couldn't imagine reaching. Twenty sounded like an entirely different species of person, alien and unreachable. You couldn't imagine being old enough to leave home. You couldn't imagine having your own apartment or choosing where you lived or deciding when you came home without asking permission. Those things belonged to adults, and adults seemed like people who knew everything, who had all the answers, who moved through the world with certainty and purpose.
You and Riki were still children. Your biggest problems were homework, scraped knees and whether you could convince someone to give you the last piece of candy. You didn't know that childhood was already becoming something you'd eventually miss, that you were living in the golden age you would spend your adulthood trying to recover. You didn't know that the ordinary afternoons you barely noticed, the ones where nothing happened and time seemed to stretch endlessly, would become the memories you'd hold onto most tightly, the ones you'd return to again and again when the world became too heavy.
By the end of your sixth year, everyone around you had started referring to the two of you as a pair, a unit, something that couldn't be separated. If someone couldn't find you, they checked for Riki. If someone couldn't find Riki, they checked for you. You were rarely far apart, your orbits locked in gravitational pull.
One afternoon, you were sitting on the rooftop while Riki tried to teach you how to skip stones. You'd found a small pile of flat rocks near the train tracks, and he'd declared them perfect for the purpose. You threw yours, watching it bounce once and disappear into the darkness below. Riki threw his. It bounced three times, the sound like small applause.
You stared at him, impressed despite yourself. "Show-off."
"You asked me to teach you."
"I don't like your teaching."
"You're bad at it."
"I'm six."
"So am I."
"Exactly."
He laughed, the sound carrying across the rooftop. You leaned back against the concrete and looked toward the tracks. A train appeared in the distance, its headlight cutting through the dusk. You watched its lights grow brighter as it approached, felt the vibration in your bones before you heard the sound.
"Riki?"
"Yeah?"
"Do you think we'll still be friends when we're old?"
He looked at you like the answer was obvious, like you'd asked whether the sky was blue. "Of course."
"Even when we're eighteen?"
"Yeah."
"Even when we're twenty?"
"Yeah."
"Even when we're really old?"
He smiled, considering. "Probably."
You narrowed your eyes, catching the hesitation. "Probably?"
"Fine. Definitely."
You smiled, satisfied. "Promise?"
He held out his pinky, the gesture now familiar and beloved. "Promise."
You hooked yours around his. The train thundered past below you, shaking the rooftop beneath your feet, a roar of metal and motion and power. Neither of you let go.
The months after that passed quietly, almost deceptively so, like water flowing over stones. Nothing about your lives changed overnight. There was no single morning when you woke up and suddenly felt older, suddenly understood the world in a new way. Instead, childhood slipped forward in tiny pieces, so slowly that neither of you noticed it happening, like a tide coming in so gradually you didn't realize you were drowning.
Summer became autumn, the leaves changing color and falling in drifts against the buildings. Autumn became winter, the cold settling into your bones. Winter eventually softened into spring, the world thawing and greening and coming alive again. The fire escape stayed exactly where it had always been, rusted and slightly crooked, and the train tracks continued to hum beneath the neighbourhood as though time didn't matter to them, as though you weren't growing older with every passing day.
You and Riki still met almost every afternoon, still found each other without planning or effort. Sometimes you had plans, adventures to embark upon, treasures to find. Usually you didn't. There were days when you spent hours wandering around without doing anything particularly interesting, simply because being together was enough, because his presence made the ordinary world feel extraordinary.
You'd walk to the corner shop with a handful of coins and spend ten minutes arguing over what to buy, the debate more important than the purchase.
"We can get two things," you'd insist.
Riki would count the coins again, his brow furrowed in concentration. "No, we can't."
"We can."
"We have enough for one."
"What if we ask them to make it cheaper?"
"That's not how shops work."
"You don't know that."
"I do."
"Have you asked?"
He'd stare at you, caught in the logic trap you'd set. "No."
"Then you don't know."
Sometimes he'd give in just to stop the argument, his shoulders sagging in defeat. You'd leave with two tiny sweets and split them evenly, even though you always complained that his half looked bigger.
"It is bigger."
"It's the same."
"Look."
You'd hold them beside each other, comparing. "Yours is bigger."
He'd sigh, accepting his fate. "You can have mine."
"Really?"
"Yeah."
"You're the best."
"I know."
"I was going to give it back."
"Sure."
"I was."
"Sure."
You'd eat it anyway, and he'd pretend to be annoyed, but you could see the smile he was hiding.
There were whole afternoons where nothing happened at all. Those became some of your favourite days, the ones you'd remember most clearly in years to come. You'd sit on the pavement outside his building with your backs against the wall, watching people come and go, making up stories about strangers who passed by. The old man carrying groceries was secretly a spy, his paper bags full of hidden cameras and coded messages. The woman with the red umbrella was a princess in disguise, hiding from her royal duties. The man who walked past every morning owned a castle somewhere far away, and he was only here to solve a mystery.
Riki always made his stories realistic, grounded in possibility. You made yours ridiculous, reaching for magic and wonder.
"That guy is definitely a pirate," you'd say, pointing at a man in a business suit.
"He's carrying bread."
"Pirates eat bread."
"He's wearing a suit."
"A pirate can wear a suit."
"Why?"
"Because he's a fancy pirate."
Riki would stare at you for a second before shaking his head, his lips twitching. "You're impossible."
"But you like me."
He'd pause, considering, his head tilting. "Unfortunately."
You'd grin because you knew he did, knew it in the way he saved you the last sip of his drink, the way he always walked on the outside of the sidewalk closest to the street, the way he looked for you first when he entered a room.
School slowly became part of your routine too, the structure of it, the expectations. You started learning which teachers were strict, which ones were easily distracted and which ones gave too much homework. You and Riki didn't always have the same classes, which you hated, the separation feeling unnatural and wrong. On mornings when you knew you wouldn't see him until lunch, you'd stand outside your classroom longer than necessary, dragging your feet.
"You're going to be late," he'd tell you, his bag already slung over his shoulder.
"I know."
"Then go."
"I don't want to."
"Why?"
"Because you're leaving."
He'd smile faintly, the expression softening his serious face. "I'll be there at lunch."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
You'd finally walk inside, your feet heavy, your heart lighter for the promise. Sometimes you'd catch him looking back at you before he disappeared around the corner, his head turning just slightly, and you'd feel something warm expand in your chest.
Neither of you understood why those little moments mattered so much, why the separation of a few hours felt like a small death. You were simply children who had become accustomed to each other's presence, who had grown around each other like two trees planted too close together, their roots tangled beneath the surface. When one of you wasn't there, the day felt slightly wrong, slightly off, like a song missing a note.
You also began learning each other's moods without needing explanations, developing a language of silence and gesture. Riki learned that when you became unusually quiet, something was wrong, that your silence was an alarm bell. You learned that when he started picking at the skin around his thumb, he was nervous, that the small habit was a window into his interior world. He learned that you hated thunder, that the sound made you shrink into yourself. You learned that he hated being shouted at, that raised voices made him withdraw into some private fortress.
You knew he preferred sitting near windows, that he needed to see the sky. He knew you always slept with one foot outside the blanket because you got too warm, that the pressure of fabric on both feet felt like trapping. You knew that when he was embarrassed, he rubbed the back of his neck, the skin there growing pink. He knew that when you were lying, you avoided eye contact, your gaze sliding away to find something safer to look at. These weren't things you discussed or named. They simply accumulated, little facts collected through hundreds of ordinary afternoons, building a map of each other more detailed than any cartographer could create.
Sometimes you fought. Usually over stupid things, the kind of arguments that burned hot and died fast. Once you refused to speak to him because he'd chosen the blue pencil instead of the red one, the color you'd wanted without saying. Another time he wouldn't let you climb onto the highest part of the rooftop because he thought it was dangerous, because he'd seen the rust on the railing and didn't trust it to hold your weight.
"You're not my dad," you complained, your arms crossed.
"Good."
"Then stop telling me what to do."
"Fine."
He turned away, his shoulders stiff, his silence a wall between you. You waited for him to crack, to give in. He waited too, stubborn as stone. Five minutes passed, the longest silence you'd ever endured.
"Are you really not going to talk to me?" you asked, your voice small.
"You told me to stop telling you what to do."
"I didn't mean stop talking."
He looked at you, his expression softening. "What did you mean?"
You crossed your arms tighter, trying to hold onto your anger. "I don't know."
He smiled slightly, the victory gentle. "Okay."
"Okay what?"
"I'll keep talking."
You tried not to smile. "Good."
He bumped your shoulder against his, a gesture of peace. "Good."
Your birthdays were small events, celebrated without fanfare. There weren't many presents, and you never expected much, having learned early that disappointment was the price of expectation. One year, Riki gave you a little notebook with a crooked drawing on the front, the paper slightly bent from being carried in his pocket.
You stared at it, turning it over in your hands. "What's this?"
"A notebook."
"I can see that."
"Then why'd you ask?"
You opened it. On the first page he'd written your name in careful, slightly crooked letters. Beneath it was a badly drawn picture of two stick figures standing beside a train, their hands touching, their heads too large for their bodies. You laughed, the sound bright in the small room.
"What's this?"
"Us."
"Why do I have a giant head?"
"Because you talk a lot."
You laughed harder, tears gathering in your eyes. "You made your head small."
"Because I'm quiet."
"You're weird."
"You like it."
You closed the notebook carefully, handling it like something precious. "I do."
His expression softened, the vulnerability showing through his usual guardedness. "Good."
As the year moved forward, your home life became a little harder to ignore, the problems growing like weeds through cracks in pavement. The arguments happened more often, the peaceful days becoming rare treasures. Sometimes your father would come home already angry, his rage preceding him through the door, and you could tell before he even opened it, could read it in the heaviness of his footsteps. Sometimes your mother would send you to your room before anything happened, her eyes pleading with you to understand, to comply, to disappear. You began understanding what that meant in ways you hadn't before. It meant stay quiet. It meant don't ask questions. It meant don't come out until everything was calm, until the storm had passed and left debris in its wake.
Riki never knew exactly what happened behind the walls of your apartment, but he knew enough, read enough in your silences and your flinches. There were evenings when he'd walk you home and stop outside your building, his hand still holding yours.
"Want me to wait?" he'd ask, his voice casual but his eyes serious.
You'd look toward the windows, trying to read the light, the shadows. "Maybe."
So he'd sit beside you on the steps, your shoulders touching, saying nothing, until you were ready to go inside, until you could face whatever waited behind that door. Sometimes you'd stay for ten minutes, gathering courage. Sometimes an hour, the sun disappearing completely, the stars coming out to watch over you. Once, you fell asleep against his shoulder, your body finally giving in to exhaustion. He didn't wake you. He simply sat there, his arm around you, until your mother eventually opened the door and found you both asleep on the concrete steps, her expression softening in a way you rarely saw.
Another time, you looked at him and whispered, "I don't want to go home," the admission feeling dangerous and true.
He didn't tell you that you had to, didn't offer empty platitudes about family and duty. He just asked, "Do you want to come to mine?"
You shook your head, the temptation painful to resist. "My mum will worry."
"Okay."
He squeezed your hand, his grip firm and grounding. "Then I'll stay here."
The first time you cried in front of him, you were embarrassed, your face hot with shame. You'd fallen while running and scraped your knee badly, the skin torn and bleeding, gravel embedded in the wound. It wasn't a serious injury, not really, but the pain and the frustration of the day combined until tears spilled down your face without permission, beyond your control.
"Don't look at me," you muttered, turning away, your hand covering your eyes.
Riki immediately sat beside you, his body warm against yours. "Why?"
"Because I'm crying."
"So?"
"It's embarrassing."
"Why?"
"Because I'm six."
"Six-year-olds cry."
"I don't want to."
He looked at your scraped knee, his expression serious, clinical. "Does it hurt?"
You nodded, unable to speak, the tears still coming.
He carefully brushed the dirt away from the skin, his touch gentle, his fingers careful. "Okay."
"Okay what?"
"We need a bandage."
"Where?"
"My house."
"Can we go?"
"Yeah."
He helped you stand, his arm around your waist, taking some of your weight. You leaned against him while you walked, your steps uneven, your breathing still shaky.
"Riki?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't tell anyone I cried."
He looked at you seriously, his eyes meeting yours. "I won't."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
He kept that promise, never mentioned it again, as if it had never happened.
By spring, you had started climbing the fire escape together again, the fear conquered by repetition and companionship. The first time you returned to the exact ledge where you'd gotten stuck, you stood there for a moment and stared down at the pavement below, remembering.
"Remember this?" Riki asked, his voice casual.
"No."
He looked at you, knowing you were lying. "You absolutely remember."
"Maybe."
"You were terrified."
"I wasn't."
"You were."
"I wasn't."
"You were shaking."
"It was cold."
"It was summer."
You glared at him, but there was no real anger in it. "You're annoying."
He laughed, the sound echoing off the metal railings. "And you still came back."
You looked at the ledge, then at him, the truth simple and clear. "Because you're here."
He went quiet, his expression changing in some way you couldn't read. You didn't think anything of it. You were six. You simply meant that you weren't scared because he was beside you, that his presence made the dangerous feel safe. But Riki remembered the sentence, filed it away somewhere deep, carried it with him like a talisman.
The year ended without ceremony, without fanfare. There was no dramatic moment marking the end of being six, no line in the sand. One day you were six, and then suddenly you weren't, the number changing with the casual cruelty of time. You were growing, even if neither of you noticed, even if you still felt like the same children who'd met on a fire escape. Your shoes became too small, your toes pressing against the leather. Your sleeves became too short, your wrists exposed to the air. Your handwriting changed, becoming slightly more legible, slightly more controlled. Your voices changed slightly, losing some of their babyish quality, gaining new notes. Your arguments became more complicated, your logic more sophisticated. Your jokes became less childish, more layered. But the routine remained, the core of your connection untouched.
After school, find Riki. After dinner, look for him. When things became too loud at home, think about the fire escape, about the view from above. When the trains passed, count the carriages together, competing to see who could keep track as they blurred past. When you were scared, reach for his hand, knowing it would be there. When he was quiet, sit beside him, knowing your presence was enough. Neither of you knew how long it would last, how many years you had, how many promises you would make and break. At six, forever didn't seem like a frightening word, didn't carry the weight of impossibility. It simply sounded like the natural ending to every promise, the only word that could contain the vastness of what you felt.
And when spring finally turned into another summer, when the heat returned and wrapped around the city once more, you stood beside Riki on the rooftop watching the sun disappear behind the buildings, painting the sky in colors you didn't have names for. He had grown slightly taller over the year, his body stretching toward the future. You hadn't noticed until one day you realized you had to tilt your head upward to look at him, that the comfortable equality of height had shifted.
"You're taller," you complained, the words coming out more wounded than you'd intended.
He smiled, pleased despite himself. "I know."
"Don't get taller."
"Why?"
"Because then I'll have to look up."
"You already do."
"Not that much."
He laughed, the sound carrying across the rooftop. You folded your arms, trying to hold onto your indignation. "I don't like it."
"You'll get taller too."
"What if I don't?"
He shrugged, considering. "Then I'll carry you."
You stared at him, the image suddenly vivid in your mind. "Really?"
He shrugged again, trying to play it casual, but you could see the truth in his eyes. "If you want."
You smiled, the future suddenly seeming possible, manageable, something you could face together. "Okay."
The train passed below, its lights flashing between the buildings, its sound filling the world. You watched it until it disappeared around the curve, until the sound faded into memory. Then you looked at Riki, your friend, your constant, your other half in some way you couldn't explain.
"Do you think we'll still be here next summer?"
He glanced at you, his profile sharp against the darkening sky. "Probably."
"Together?"
He didn't hesitate, didn't need to think. "Yeah."
You held out your pinky, the gesture now sacred between you. "Promise?"
He hooked his around yours, the contact warm and certain, a bond sealed in silence. "Promise."
And just like that, another year began.
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