#A Partridge Family Christmas Card | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

banjjakz · 1 year ago

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once upon a december (things i almost remember); hananene oneshot

On the first day of Christmas My true love sent to me: A partridge in a pear tree The wine glass slips from her left hand and crashes to the floor in an ear-shattering explosion. Dark red liquid – frigid and insidious – seeps between the gaps in her stockings, dyeing her toes crimson from the outside in. She can’t be bothered to cringe at the unpleasant sensation. No, Nene is more preoccupied with dropping the card, clutching her head, and letting out the first wail she’s released since last December.

(Or: Aoi went missing last Christmas, and the chilling bite of the new year rendered her case cold to the touch. This year, on December first, Nene opens an anonymous Christmas card to find a lock of deep purple hair. Terrified, jaded, and freshly incensed, she teams up with the boy next door to track down her best friend before it's too late.)

wc: ~9.7k warnings: horror; psychological thriller; kidnapping; gaslighting; implied drugging; murder mystery; stalking; manipulation; bad end

🖤 read on ao3 🖤

December is the coldest month.

December, for Nene, had not always been cold. December was once filled with warmth and laughter, joy and friction, a vibrant collage of pale golden sun leaking through the bleary overcast sky; beams of light bouncing from snow mound to snow mound in a grand display of merry acrobatics; a fireplace and a hearth and a cornucopia of store-bought curry, leftovers gifted generously by the neighbors, trials and many errors of family recipes lost in the muddled translation of time; cable-knit sweaters; worn leather boots; snowflakes on the tongue like a burst of magic spreading so cold, so rapidly across her body it threatened to burn her alive; and a friend, to join her in this winter wonderland.

December had not always been cold.

Nene, very desperately, tries to remind herself of that fact this year.

It certainly feels colder, but this is admittedly due in large part to her broken radiator. The same radiator she’s been meaning for months now to ask Minamoto Kou from across the street to come and tinker with. She doesn’t know why she keeps forgetting. She should have told him in April, when it first threw in the towel. Should have, should have, should have. Now it is December, and Nene shivers at her own dining table, like she’s seen a ghost. Now, it is December first, and she might as well have, because the ghosts of time’s past are beginning to claw their way from underneath her tissues flushed down the toilet, all her tears buried between threadbare pillowcases. Now, it is December first, and the skeletons in her closet begin to reanimate themselves, cracking their joints stiff from disuse, skulls grinning madly in sadistic preparation.

An anniversary requires fanfare, after all. Twenty-four days until the big event.

How, she thinks, numbly. How has it almost been a year? It’s been simultaneously the longest and yet the shortest expanse of time in her mortal experience of life. Just yesterday she’d been burying her face into Aoi’s neck, red-cheeked with laughter. Eons have passed since she last saw her best friend’s face.

Time works in funny ways when you’re depressed. So does depth perception, apparently; Nene almost brains herself skating across a haphazard patch of ice that runs jagged down her driveway. Her arms windmill, flailing wildly in an attempt to brace what she knows will be an inevitably nasty faceplant. Perfect. An amazing end to a fantastic day at the start of her favorite month of the year. Nene would cry, if she had any tears left to spare.

Someone above must get bored of watching her aimlessly struggle, because she’s able to snag ahold of the mailbox at the last second, effectively steadying her unsightly downfall. Dry, peeling fingers clutch at the hard metal tin with all the force of an animal cornered. It takes her a second to unclench, to exhale, to remember that she is no longer in peril. The tunnel vision fades. Her breathing evens out. The ringing in her ears subsides. She notices the meek red little flag, erect and upturned on the side of the mailbox, valiantly standing tall and bright amidst the grey dreary backdrop.

She hasn’t received mail in months.

Her bills are paid online, for the most part. She doesn’t have any close friends. Her family stopped trying to contact her months ago, when the cherry blossoms began to wilt in the storm drains. Now there are no fruit bearing trees, and Nene lives alone – truly alone – with no one to send her mail. No one she knows of, at least.

That last thought triggers something in the back of her brain, sharp and chilling and alarming all at once, a sensation she has not embraced for months now: self-preservation.

Suddenly anxious, Nene rips open the mouth of the metal box and peers inside. A lone ruby envelope greets her. Before she can think better of it, Nene snatches the thing and hastily fixes her mailbox to fit the lackluster, lonely image she’s more accustomed to: close-holed. Flag down.

She hustles up her front steps, huddled around the strange package like a mother protecting its wounded young. Her neighbors must think her insane, but Nene doesn’t care about that. She hasn’t cared since – well.

The house is cold, and dark. Shadows leap and jump in warm welcome as she meanders her way into the kitchen, flicking the right switch on the first try out of sheer muscle memory. All at once, her line of vision is illuminated in frosty fluorescents, rendering the pale wood and bloodless countertops an even more pallid hue. The dust that collects along the lone windowsill just above the sink unsettles itself at her arrival, motes floating benignly in the air, almost as though waving a shy little welcome home.

Her coat is shouldered to the tile floor. Her heels are kicked off somewhere near. The top two buttons of her work dress are popped open to allow for some breathing room. The bottle of wine she goes to uncork awaits her dutifully from the countertop, where she had uncorked it the day before, and the day before that, and even the day before that one. Tonight’s glass runs a little bit deeper, though. She has a feeling she might need it.

The first thing that strikes her as truly odd is the lack of a return address. She revolves the slim, rectangular envelope in one hand, inspecting it thoroughly from pristinely pressed edge to pristinely pressed edge, and yet she is unable to locate any address beyond her own, which is printed neatly in dark, black ink. If she didn’t know any better, she would’ve guessed it had been printed directly on the surface, what with how evenly the characters are spaced from each other. An errant smudge blurs the last zero on her prefecture code, however, and Nene deduces that this was hand-written and hand-mailed – by whom, she’s yet to uncover.

It should disturb her more than it actually does, this piece of mystery mail. A literal scarlet letter resting innocently enough in her lap, its insignia black as night, its arrival marked by the year’s darkest hour. These past eleven months have numbed her, she thinks ruefully. What’s frozen cannot feel.

At worst, it’s a lame little prank from some of the kids on her street. The adults know better than to prod at her, but she’s caught some of the junior high kids messing about on her lawn right around dusk, completely unaware that her dark windows do not denote vacancy. She’s the strange woman in the strange house at the end of the lane, she knows. Tragedy has painted her desolate. Maybe this is a note poking fun at her late age, her living in solace, perhaps even her style of dress, which is just as muted and bland as the rest of her general surroundings.

Maybe it’s an urban legend, placed in her mailbox to frighten her, boldly proclaiming that something terrible will happen in seven days if she doesn’t forward the message immediately.

Maybe the sender was one digit, one character off, and this envelope isn’t even hers to claim in the first place.

Unenthused and fairly exhausted, Nene feels nothing as she unhurriedly splices the red lip with her thumb.

Her immediate reaction is confusion. There is a Christmas card inside. Her family doesn’t celebrate the holiday. She doesn’t have any friends at work, or in her neighborhood that celebrate the holiday.

A prank, she reasons. It’s not a farfetched notion.

As she gingerly pulls the card out of its snug red outfit, she’s greeted with the sight of the Western caricature of a robust, profoundly smiling Santa Claus, who grins up at her from his boisterous perch atop a sleigh wealthy with presents. HO, HO, HO! Read the English characters emblazoned above his head, bright like headlights. She feels caught in their glare.

Yep. Definitely a prank.

Like ripping off a band-aid, Nene flips open the card in one swift, violent motion.

And her heart stutters to a standstill.

All around her, the house freezes in place; the dust-motes shrink back, captivated in disbelief, their once amicable air now petrified with the abrupt shift in the air; the shadows at her feet shrink back in empathy; and even the skeletons in her closet quiet their clamor for a handful of terrible, awful, painstakingly potent seconds.

A lock of hair is tucked gently into the spine of the Christmas card. A lock of hair Nene remembers brushing, braiding, caressing, adorning with clips and bows and ribbons and ties. A lock of hair Nene had watched as a child cascade down from the smooth, scarless expanse of an unblemished ivory neck, all the way down to an impossibly tapered waist, slim and cinched and imprinted on her living room couch, in her kitchen chair, in her bed. A soft lock of hair. A purple lock of hair. A fresh lock of hair.

(It still smells like her shampoo.)

The card is white and red and green and festive, with only the following words written as any kind of explanation:

On the first day of Christmas

My true love sent to me:

A partridge in a pear tree

The wine glass slips from her left hand and crashes to the floor in an ear-shattering explosion. Dark red liquid – frigid and insidious – seeps between the gaps in her stockings, dyeing her toes crimson from the outside in. She can’t be bothered to cringe at the unpleasant sensation.

No, Nene is more preoccupied with dropping the card, clutching her head, and letting out the first wail she’s released since last December.

The “gifts” continue to arrive, after that first fateful day.

Nene, in all her discombobulated panic, scrambled to look up the English text from which the sender was pulling. It was a Christmas carol, apparently. One that went on to detail twelve days of presents sent from a secret admirer to their ‘true love.’ In accordance with the rhyme, Nene received parcels for twelve days – each containing some remnant of the previous day, and a new addition to the mix.

They were all pieces of Aoi.

Locks of hair. Soiled socks. Broken bits of jewelry. The ribbon Nene gifted her as a birthday present two years ago. All of it intimate, all of it freshly pressed into an airtight Ziplock bag – and all of it smelling freshly and distinctly of Aoi. These keepsakes, Nene was convinced, were not coveted posthumously. Despite what the police department decreed, Nene knew eleven months ago what she knows now: Aoi is alive. She must be. She must be.

And her captor isn’t done with her yet.

As the week trickles through her ruddy, cracked, trembling fingers, Nene weighs her options. She could seek legal help once more, but she doesn’t know if she trusts them to do their job right. Not after they’d given up so easily, had let Aoi’s memory fade from their logs and legal books like the final wisps of a fire smudged out. No, she couldn’t go to the police. She couldn’t reach Aoi’s family, hasn’t been able to since the investigation closed out in January and the Akanes minced no words when they voiced their contempt – and their blame – for just who, exactly, was at fault for their daughter’s disappearance.

(“You lived with her,” Mrs. Akane had said, quietly, “and saw nothing?”)

There is nobody else on which Nene can rely, except herself.

She devises her plan on the eve of the twelfth night.

I’ll stay home from work, she reasons. Turn of all the lights. Close all the blinds. Pretend not to be home. And watch the mailbox like a hawk.

Worst comes to worst, the only person who graces her front lawn is a dutiful delivery man. But still, Nene finds that hard to believe; the packages that reach her are pristinely placed with care and precision, arriving on an individual, consistent, and daily basis. Surely the faults of the very human Japanese national mail system would have hit a snag at least once during this entire operation. As such, Nene is led to believe that the culprit is hand-delivering these dark little omens.

And she is going to catch them in the act.

That Friday is a slow one. Nene rises with the sun, or what little of it manages to peer past the caliginous cloud of fog that overcasts the city. She makes her coffee. She settles into her armchair – the one tucked into an obscure corner of the living room, just out of eyeshot from the street beyond her drawn curtains – and she waits. And waits.

And waits.

She is waiting for so long that it surprises her when the sun flirts with the horizon’s edge, dipping his does into dusky twilight. This is usually the time of day when she comes home to a new parcel.

Surely, they haven’t forgotten. It’s the grand finale, after all.

Something is decidedly different, then.

The time, unfortunately, does get the best of her. Despite her best efforts, Nene is powerless to the exhaustion of the week, the fatigue of remaining still and alert for the better part of twelve hours, and the draining anxiety that’s plagued her from the moment she’d received that first card. She’s drifting off before she can catch herself, floating aimlessly, blissfully in a dreamless scape, brought back to the world of the living by an offensive CLANG!

Immediately, Nene jerks awake, rattled.

God dammit. How long had she been out for?

Ears ringing, eyes wide and teary, Nene sits and stews in the silent dark of the house, straining her ears to sus out any more noise. It’s late, judging by the opaque black that coats the living room with a thick, ominous mood. Nobody on her street – not even the spunky kids – are out this late.

Creeeeeak…

The squeal is faint, but telltale. The sound of metal hinges whining in protest. The mouth of her mailbox opening. The mailbox.

Nene, with shaking hands, peels back the curtain just wide enough to peer out of the window.

A dark, shadowy figure is right there on her front lawn. Two arms outstretched into the rusty, tin cage.

Bingo.

She’s on her feet and out the door before she has time to second-guess herself. In that moment, she cannot see the consequences of her actions; rather, what plagues Nene’s mind the most is are the locks of deep amethyst hair, the fingernail cuttings, the socks, the accessories, the used tissues, the empty lipstick tubes, and everything else that has been sent in a boldfaced taunt to provoke Nene into the very same reckless action she has no choice but to take now.

For Aoi, her heart screams as she throws open her front door and barrels into the street, This is for Aoi.

“STOP RIGHT THERE,” exclaims Nene, projection boosted by the copious amounts of adrenaline running rapid like wildfire through her pulsing veins. It is a powerful yell, a wounded shriek, and it startles the hooded figure so badly that they stumble backwards in surprise, catching their footing right underneath the streetlamp. When they look up, the violent yellow lighting is enough to illuminate their face just enough for Nene to make out some key identifying features, but – wait – isn’t that –

“Yugi-san?”

The man across from her giggles nervously. “Hi, Yashiro. I am aware that this looks very bad.”

She blinks. “No shit.”

Yugi Amane, her next-door neighbor. The other black sheep of their strange little cul de sac. She’s spoken to him only briefly in passing, and each time was an oddly pleasant surprise. On one particularly noticeable occasion, he even helped her carry her groceries inside, and let her cry on his shoulder when the gallon of milk she’d lugged all the way from the grocery store did, in fact, burst all over her kitchen floor. He’d been kind. Offered to clean it up, and then fetched her some more the next day.

That was six months ago. They haven’t spoken since.

“Look,” he begins, frazzled, hands in the air as if to show he means no harm, “I’m not the creep you’re looking for. Believe me.”

“The creep I’m looking for?” Asks Nene, wary.

“You know… the… the guy? Who keeps stalking your mailbox?”

All the color drains from Nene’s face in an instant. “How do you know about—”

“I’m your next-door neighbor,” he scoffs, almost offended, “It would be stranger if I hadn’t noticed. He’s there every day, same time, hood up, face mask on. And, let’s be honest, Yashiro, you don’t have very many people over nowadays. Was I so wrong to be suspicious?”

“Excuse me?” Nene feels a vein threaten to burst from her forehead.

Yugi ignores her and barrels on. “So, I tried to catch him in the act tonight! Maybe rough him up a little bit! Teach him a lesson?”

“Teach him a lesson,” echoes Nene, hollowly. She eyes his body up and down. His five-foot-seven, rail-thin body, dwarfed by the egregious amounts of black fabric he’s swaddled himself in to fight against the cold. “You,” she repeats, just to clarify, “were going to teach him a lesson?”

“It’s the least I can do,” says Yugi, suddenly somber. “After all that’s happened.”

“I don’t need your pity.”

“Not pity. Try ‘basic human decency.’”

“You are so—” Nene stops. Re-centers herself. “Right. It’s too cold out here for all this. Did you… would you want to… I mean—”

His face shouldn’t loom that brightly. Not out here, not in the deep bottomless dark of the December night. He’s all pale skin and round cheeks, elusive like the moon, marked by twin bright points of luminescent amber. They twinkle at her in a dazzlingly spot-on impression of starlight. They wink in and out of sight as they’re scrunched upwards by the force of a sly, boxy grin. They bore into her, chilling her to the bone, shining bright and merry all the while.

“Why, Yashiro, I thought you’d never ask.” The comment hangs in the air for one beat, two beats, until Yugi breaks the tension with a well-timed quip. “I’m freezing my ass off!”

“’Teach him a lesson,” grumbles Nene, already spinning on her heel to lead the odd young man through her front door. “I’ll teach you a lesson.”

“Hm? Did you say something?”

“No, nothing at all.”

Amane – as he’d told her in no uncertain terms to address him as (“it’s not like we’re strangers, now, are we?”) – sits next to her at the dining room table with a troubled look on his face. The large, even spread of dark mahogany has functioned as her drawing board for the past week; laid out in two neat, even rows are every envelope, card, and keepsake she’s received thus far. Amane studies the twelfth card, which arrive in a small box in lieu of the paper manila envelopes Nene had become accustomed to. There was too much of Aoi to contain in a simple slip, this time.

“Hm,” hums the dark-haired boy, lip caught between his teeth as he studies the contents. “And you’re positive all of this is hers?”

Nene jerks back, as if slapped. “How could it not be?”

“What exactly is your plan, Yashiro?”

He’s standing up, now, svelte figure made even slimmer by the all-black sweater and jeans combination that hangs off of him like dripping gloom. Amane begins to circle the table, socked feet thumping gently, quietly, soundlessly against the wooden floorboards. Nene nearly thinks him to be a specter, floating effortlessly through the thick air, making maddening paces around her. “You charged at me with no weapon to defend yourself, no phone to call for help, nothing in your arsenal except eleven months of pent up hurt.”

She wants to get angry. It’s her knee-jerk response nowadays, and the things he is saying are out of line. They’re blunt, they’re insensitive, and—

Worst of all?

They’re true.

Amane’s slow revolution stops right behind the axis of her chair. He can’t see her bitten lip from her, her watering eyes, her hot cheeks. She wonders what he’d say. She sends a silent thanks that she’s shielded from his calculating view.

“I’m not trying to be mean,” murmurs Amane, quietly. Nene can tell he’s being honest. “I’m trying to prepare you.”

“Prepare me?”

Amane steps into her periphery, then, silently urging her to look towards him instead of hiding behind the safe veneer of her hair. “The world can be cruel. You’re no stranger to that, Yashiro. When Akane-san left, it was hard for you. We all saw it. I saw it. I saw you.”

Nene looks up at him.

His voice is strange, affected in a way that Nene would have never thought to expect from her neighbor. The guy who let her cry over spilled milk, smearing her snot and tears all along the crisp lines of his nice button-down shirt. The guy who smiles at her – who has always smiled at her – when she was out and about in the neighborhood. The guy who never crossed the sidewalk when he saw her coming. The guy who never told his kids to stay away from Yashiro-san, the woman with the missing roommate. The woman whom tragedy seems to tail like a hound after its master.

“I saw you,” continues Amane, “and it hurt me to watch you go through something like that.”

He is pale, he is wan, and he is brightly flushed in the middle of her dining room, Sitting on her table. Fiddling nervously with the hem of his worn sweater.

She doesn’t know what to say. The words get caught in her throat, blocked by the lump that grows bigger and bigger with each word that comes tumbling out of Amane’s stupidly perfect lips.

“Let me help you.” His face turns fixed, resolute. “Anything I can do to be of assistance. Whatever you need, I’m here for.”

“But why?”

“I told you, already. It upsets me when you’re upset. I don’t like seeing you like that.”

“And when have you ever ‘seen’ me,” scoffs Nene, but it’s mostly to detract from the tears trickling down her cheeks.

Amane wipes them away with the pad of his thumb so impossibly gently it nearly hurts. “All the time, Yashiro.” His touch grounds her – or, rather, she’s being sucked into it, forced to lean on the first scrap of stability she’s been offered in nearly a calendar year. Where she is weak, and greedy for more, he is kind, and benevolent enough to offer her his comfort.

Surely, there must be a catch. Surely, she’s going to regret this.

Out of the corner of her eye, Nene spots the errant glint of one of Aoi’s favorite bracelets. It rests atop the card for the fifth day, along with a small mountain of her other personal effects, some of which Nene can recount the stories behind. Those earrings are from the boutique in Harajuku we visited on a weekend trip. She’s used that same brand of dental floss for years, now, ever since we were kids. I gave her that hairclip, I bought her that lipstick, I used to clip her nails for her when she was too tired to do it.

The loss hits her anew, driving her face further into the palm of Amane’s hand. He’s cooing something or other, his carefully crafted words spun like candy floss, but they fall upon deaf ears. All Nene can think of are the past twelve days, the past eleven months, the past lifetime she’d taken for granted with her best friend, and the ticking doomsday clock that lies ahead of her, counting down to one of the worst anniversaries Nene has ever had the displeasure of celebrating.

For Aoi. This is for Aoi.

It must be.

It will be.

The dust had nearly settled.

The last of the moving trucks pulled out of the driveway, leaving the two young women to their brand-new, freshly stocked, Real Adult House. This was a first for the both of them – a first that they were delighted – and purposeful – in sharing together.

It was an unseasonably warm autumn afternoon. As such, Aoi thought it appropriate to pour some lemonade into a pair of matching glasses, even while a litter of cardboard boxes crowded every conceivable surface.

“Oh, let’s just relax a minute, Nene. Un-packing can wait until we catch our second wind, hm?”

“I don’t know,” said Nene, taking Aoi’s offered glass all the same. “There’s so much to do…”

“Stop fretting. You’ll get wrinkles.”

“Ha-ha, very funny. Little too late to be worrying about that.”

“You shouldn’t be worrying about anything. We’re finally home. We finally made it. How do you feel, love? Talk to me.”

Nene swirled her lemonade and worried her teeth at the rim, the dull clink reverberating in the otherwise silent house. Her gaze draped lazily over the wooden banisters, the charming dark, earthy tones of the first floor, all of it bathed in the gorgeous amber glow of near-dusk. The windows had a lovely view, but they were rather large – they’d need to buy some curtains.

“The neighborhood is nice. Well groomed.”

Aoi, it seemed, was pleased by this answer. “It’s not the only thing well-groomed around here.”

“That was terrible.”

“I know.”

“…Who is it?”

“One of our neighbors,” Aoi giggled into her lemonade as she took a dainty sip. “I swear, he was ogling me when we were helping the movers. Like he just couldn’t look away!”

They never can, thought Nene, bitterly. “Which one?”

“Across the street. They’re two brothers, I think. The older one has got such a piercing stare. I’m not going to lie, if I didn’t know any better, I’d be a little frightened.”

“I’m sure.”

“Oh, don’t be like that, Nene. You’re going to find friends, here, too! And then we’ll settle down and live our happy little lives and be best friends forever. Don’t you think so?”

“… Yeah. That sounds nice, Aoi.”

“Of course it does, it’s our dream! Or don’t you remember?”

“I do, I do.”

“Good. Now, why don’t we go door to door and introduce ourselves? The old-fashioned way!”

Ten days.

They’d had to wait until they both had a day off from work to reconvene. As such, it is now the fifteenth of December, approximately four in the morning, and Nene is parked outside of a non-descript storage facility. She’s far away enough to ward off any suspicion, but close enough to carefully track the movements of each patron passing through the massive revolving door.

“Look alive!”

Amane crows from the passenger seat, shoulder-checking her hard enough that Nene is jolted out of her momentary reverie. “No sleeping on the job, silly.”

“’The job,’” scoffs Nene, “Funny you should mention one of those. There’s no earthly way you’re this awake at four in the morning. What is it that you do again, Amane?”

“Property management out in the banks,” Amane rattles off, dismissively, before leaning forward in his seat. “Ooh, now look who finally decided to show up. Closer, Yashiro, or you’re going to miss him!”

The ‘him’ in question is Minamoto Teru.

Amane asked her to conjure up a list of potential suspects. (“Spare no one. It is, unfortunately, those closest to us who pose the most threat. Y’know?”) So, Nene thought back to simpler times, where she and Aoi would sit and gossip on lazy Sunday afternoons about work, family, and the odd faces around town. One odd face always managed to steadily reoccur in every single one of Aoi’s anecdotes.

The elder Minamoto and his kid brother lived directly across the street from Nene, in one of the more traditionally styled houses on the block. Incense regularly burned out front, and the entirety of their porch was adorned with wind chimes, along with various other little tools and trinkets that she could not for the life of her even begin to decipher the purpose or use of. She’d never been spiritual – neither had Aoi – and so the orthodoxy of the Minamoto household was already rather unsettling.

What really drove the wedge in further was Minamoto’s penchant for staring.

There were many a night where Aoi would complain of a restless sleep, chalked up to the sensation of being watched. Nene – in her thoughtlessly callous manner – dismissed this often as a symptom of Aoi’s inflated ego. What Nene now realizes she’d failed to take into account is the fact that Aoi’s bedroom window peered straight into the second story of the Minamoto abode. The distance between the two houses was not that large; if they wanted to, they could push up the glass and shout to communicate.

Naturally, Minamoto is number one on Nene’s list of persons of interest.

After all, there’s something to be said for handsome, charming men with a seemingly endless knowledge of social niceties. Minamoto had never been anything short of polite to both her and Aoi, but the more that Nene reflects on their past interactions, the less confidence she holds in the sincerity of Minamoto’s respectful manner.

Even now, as she watches him stride through an otherwise empty parking lot, large packing bin held effortlessly on top of his right shoulder, his striking features are hard. Intense. Laser-focused. A far cry from the friendly smile he projects at home.

Beside her, Amane whistles low and long. “He doesn’t look so happy.”

“No,” Nene murmurs, agreeing. “I wonder what’s in the bin?”

“Well, it’s hard to say, but…”

He cuts himself off as they both watch it happen: Minamoto hefts the bin into the bed of his truck, and pays no mind to the shiny, metallic item that slips out from beneath the lid. It winks underneath the moonlight, practically inviting the two voyeurs to come and investigate its properties once Minamoto pulls out of the parking lot and off into the impending rising sun. As soon as he’s gone, they slip out of the car and peel into the parking lot, harping in on the lost effect.

Nene’s breath stutters in her throat as she gets a good look at it.

“Oh my God…”

A phone. The case is floral and pastel colored. Feminine. The most popular model and brand of last year’s winter.

But most importantly: it is Aoi’s phone.

Nene would recognize those scratches on the screen anywhere; she’d been apart of nearly all the stories that accompany them. Everything, down to the worried edge of the case where the design fades away, rubbed one time too many by Aoi’s anxious pinky finger, is familiar to Nene in a way that smarts freshly. It is astounding, how every piece of her best friend lives on so very vividly, even as the woman herself continues to elude Nene’s ever-desperate grasp.

“Is that--?” Asks Amane, but his tone betrays comprehension. Nene’s reaction is enough to confirm his suspicions. She presses the power button and nearly wails when it won’t turn on. She begins to spam it, frantically, her thumb coming to jam the home button as well in a cacophonous roar of clicks. She looks crazed. She knows. Yet she cannot bring herself to let go of the phone; she cannot stop hoping that maybe if she presses harder, or faster, the screen will light up and show her the lockscreen photo of her and Aoi sipping hot cocoa in front of the fireplace, taken just days before the unthinkable happened.

Before she can fall any further into disarray, two gloved hands find purchase on her shoulders. Nene belatedly realizes that she’s been shaking. Violently.

“Yashiro,” croons Amane, with infinite patience. “It’s not going to turn on.”

“I-it has to, it has to, it has to—”

“It won’t,” says Amane, not unkindly. He smooths his hands down her arms and comes to rest directly behind her, warm chest to her hunched back. “Can you feel me breathing?”

Nene nods jerkily.

“Try and copy it. Come on. I know you can do it, there you go. Just like that. You’re doing so well.”

The praise washes over her like a hot sauna over old bones. Just how long has it been, since someone has spoken to her like this? Has touched her gently, with intent, with purpose, with fingers so reverent she feels like she’s being worshipped? Has hugged her close to their beating heart and let her count her breaths to its steady rhythm?

In her rational adult brain, Nene knows that the man behind her is only doing what’s necessary to bring her down from what was gearing up to be a full-blown panic attack.

But in her fantastical, escapist brain – the one that commandeers the reign in times of duress, that whispers sweetly treacherous words? Nene cannot help but to allow herself to fall into the daydream that is being held in the arms of a man who cares for her; who camps out with her at four in the morning on a Saturday; who stands with her in empty, poorly-lit parking lots and sways their conjoined bodies back and forth, side to side, like the benign ebbing and flowing of waves at sea.

When Nene can open her eyes again, she finds that it has begun to snow.

Little flakes drift down to collect on her eyelashes, on the crown of her head, on the tip of her red-dusted nose and cheeks. She resists the sudden, childish urge to stick out her tongue.

“Better?” Whispers Amane. The steam from his breath lingers so closely that she watches as it wafts past her ear and out into the dark expanse of the night. Mutely, Nene nods.

“I told you, I don’t like seeing you upset. I’m going to make sure that this year is better for you. Okay? I promise. You can hold me to it.”

“You barely know me,” says Yashiro, finally regaining some clarity. Although she was present for all of it, finding herself entangled in Amane’s arms is somewhat of a shock, now. She’s speaking to a flickering lamp post in the distance as she continues. “Why are you doing all this, Amane?”

A humorless chuckle leaves his mouth. He breathes it into her hair. “Why do you think?”

The night is cold, the night is dark. Nene takes in a lungful of frigid December air and relishes in the way it burns the back of her throat. It feels like a brand, much in the same way that Amane’s arms do as they snake around her own, ever tightening.

“I’m going out!”

“Where? With who?”

Aoi stopped in her tracks, heels in hand, by the front door. “Aw, is Nene-chan worried about me? I can handle myself, you know.”

“I know,” grumbled Nene, indignantly. The stew she’d been working at for ages gurgled at her lethargically. “Just. Wanted to be safe. That’s all.”

“I will be. Don’t worry. I’ll let you know when I’m there and when I’m on my way home.”

“Is there any particular reason why you won’t tell me where you’re going, Aoi?”

Aoi’s face was wry as she finally slipped the last inch of her tiny foot into her gracefully lifted shoes. She looked like a vision – but she always did. That was just her. “You won’t like my answer.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Don’t wait up, okay? I’ll be fine!”

“Ah—Aoi, wait—at least take a jacket! It’s getting colder these days—!”

But she was already out of the door before Nene could finish.

Seven days.

It’s getting harder. Harder to keep up with work, harder to keep up with bills, harder to get out of bed on the weekends to make herself something other than instant meals and refried rice.

This time of year has always been overstimulating for Nene, but now that so much of the holiday season is imprinted in her mind with memories of bereavement, there is very little Nene can experience that doesn’t send her back to a different place in time entirely.

She begins to space out in department stores, in konbinis, in supermarkets, when she spots something that resembles Aoi’s wardrobe a little too closely. When she comes to, she realizes she has no idea how much time has passed, or if she’s someone has tried to speak to her. It’s frightening. It’s numbing. It should be sobering, but the closer the anniversary date looms, the harder Nene finds it to wade through the waking world.

And through it all, of course, is Amane: cooking her dinner when she lets slip she hasn’t had much besides energy drinks and protein bars; picking up groceries when she cannot bear to take another step outside of her house; running errands on her behalf like it’s his civic duty; keeping her company while she knits, or reads, or even as she sleeps, so that she is never alone; and even when he isn’t at her immediate side, he’s just one door down. One knock away. Less than one hundred feet apart from her at all times. Always so close. Always.

Sometimes, he behaves… strangely. Erratically. On these days, Nene will hear him talking to no one in particular in the next room. He is louder, too, and proceeds with a manic edge. He laughs too hard. He laughs at the wrong jokes. Nene considers that she is not the only one with dark secrets, with loss brimming at the core of her being.

In her state of gradually building disarray, Nene finds it especially hard to keep track of her personal belongings. It starts with harmless items, things she can easily replace: her toothbrush; her hair comb; a few pairs of socks; a vial of nail polish. Although she swears she puts them back in their respective places, still they vanish into thin air, without a trace.

“Amane,” she hums, tonelessly, “the next time you go to the store, could you pick up some more floss?”

He snorts, like she’s just told him a funny joke. “Again? We should keep a running tally, at this point.”

Nene sinks down to rest her head on the kitchen table. “I don’t want to hear it, Amane. I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” groans Nene, miserably. “It’s like… I don’t know…I’m just sort of. Floating. Through life. You know?”

She peers up at him through her crossed arms and almost chokes on her own gasp. In the dim lighting of the kitchen, there stands two Amanes. The twilight of the late afternoon provides a sinister backdrop for the sight that Nene’s mind cannot even begin to comprehend. The two Amanes are grinning down at her, eyes bright, mouth wide open. And then she blinks, and they merge as one, and suddenly Amane is crouching down to her level, nose on her arm, pupils boring holes into her own.

He stares at her in silence for a few moments. This close, Nene can smell him – neutral, clean, yet faintly metallic. “What would make you feel better?”

“I just want her back,” Nene says, so very quietly. “Getting Aoi back would be the best Christmas present ever.”

Amane, Nene has noticed, for all his enthusiasm and passion for their investigatory activities, doesn’t appreciate it when Nene talks about Aoi. For whatever reason, his face falls flat, his eyes, dull, and the shift in his energy is so sudden it threatens to give her whiplash.

As the sun finally sets, it is just the two of them illuminated by a small table lamp several paces away. Amane is aglow with orange light. It bounces off of his cheekbones sparingly, rapidly. He’s drawn gauntly like this, a vision of nightmare in her mundane little kitchen. Golden eyes half-lidded and simmering with…

“Amane…”

“If that’s what you want,” he says, finally. “I’ll make it happen.”

“You can’t—don’t say something like that. It’s not funny.”

“I’m not trying to make you laugh.”

“… Promise me, then. Promise we’ll find her for Christmas.”

“I promise, Yashiro.” He hooks their pinkies together with a grim smile. “I promise you’ll get to see her again.”

Minamoto Teru stops by two days later.

He has the audacity to stroll up to her front door, put his dirty hands on her doorbell, and summon her outside where he awaits, a tray of what he announces to be baked goods occupying his right hand.

“Losing a loved one can make the holiday season burdensome. Please remember that you are in all of our thoughts, Yashiro.”

She slams the door in his face.

How dare he? How dare he? How dare he come onto her property and offer her his stupid fucking food and say – that – knowing damn well what he’s done. He is so sick. He is so sick. He is twisted and evil and Nene cannot breathe she is so livid. She rushes upstairs, little feet pounding hard on the wood, and throws herself into her bedroom, slamming the door shut in blind rage.

The collapse onto the floor is natural; her knees fail her and she plummets onto the carpet, fingers scrabbling blindly as she lets out a frustrated sob. The devil is her neighbor and he smiles in her face, invites himself to her house, and speaks of Aoi as if he doesn’t know full and well about her loss.

Delusional with upset, Nene fishes her phone from her pocket and dials the first number in her favorites. She expects the mindless ringing, the numbing dial tone, the familiar error message telling her that her call cannot be completed at this time.

What Nene does not expect, however, is the faint ringtone that wafts through the wall.

No, she thinks, panicked, I must have finally lost it.

Still, Nene crawls slowly, hesitantly, to the opposite wall – the wall which conjoins hers and Aoi’s rooms. As she makes her way nearer, the ringtone grows louder, easier to discern from the rapid pounding of her own overexerted heart. She strains to make heads or tails of it over the pounding in her ears, the rushing of her blood, the adrenaline buzzing through her veins. She crawls, on her hands and knees, unsure of if her feet could even carry her through a moment like this.

There are no thoughts in her mind. She is suspended in disbelief. Pressing her ear against the thin wall, she confirms that yes – that is Aoi’s ringtone. One of the prettier pre-set sounds on her model. Nene would recognize it anywhere. She recognizes it now, with her pulse in her throat.

Her mind is made up in the blink of an eye. Swiftly, silently, Nene rises from her muddled heap on the ground and moves towards her own bedroom door, tactfully twisting the knob and slipping through the miniscule sliver she creates for herself. Before she can think about what, exactly, may greet her, she’s shoving open the door to Aoi’s room and barging in.

The ringing grows louder, louder, and louder, until she hears it in her eardrums, can feel it in the heavy pit of her stomach.

“What are you doing in here, Amane,” breathes Nene.

He’s – here. Sat cross-legged in the middle of the room. Her room. Her phone is in his lap. Turned on. Miraculously functional. And ringing.

(Hadn’t Nene stored it in her dresser, the night they discovered it?)

“What do you mean, Yashiro?”

“Why are you—in here—”

“Didn’t you invite me over today?”

Did she? “Did I?”

“You wanted me to look for clues.”

“Clues…�� repeats Nene, dumbly. She brings a hand to her head and massages her temple, as if that’s going to jog her memory. Why can’t she break through the heavy fog permeating her mind, obscuring from her even the most basic of mental passageways?

What had she done all day? Where had she been?

If Minamoto Teru never came by, would Nene have awoken from her stupor?

“The phone…”

“You gave it to me,” Amane reminds her helpfully. “I told you I found a way to unlock it.”

She considers, for a brief moment, arguing. She wants to tell him that she doesn’t remember anything he’s saying. The past twenty days have all been a blur, exacerbated by Amane’s introduction into her otherwise benignly lugubrious existence. Just what is his real motive, here? Why insert himself into her personal affairs after months of watching from afar? What does he know that she doesn’t? The questions swirl inside of her, ready to leap forth in a vitriolic outburst, but one good look at Amane stops her dead in her tracks.

This… is one of his strange days.

The days where he acts like a stranger wearing Amane’s skin. Jerky movements. Pitchy laughter. Shrunken pupils. He smiles innocently up at her, nearly childlike in its simplicity, and chills erupt along the rigid line of the back of her neck.

“Okay.”

“Are you hungry?”

“…Yes.”

“I’ll go make you something!”

“I can help.”

“No,” says not-Amane. “Let me.”

“Okay.”

“Okay!”

He brushes past her on his way out of the door, pocketing the cellphone as he descends the stairs.

Nene realizes that she probably should have asked for it back.

The next four days are something out of a nightmare.

Nene is barely lucid for any of it. Bits and fragments of her days find her like bottles drifting aimlessly onto the shores of a deserted beach, with nobody there to properly receive the message.

Amane had to leave for the weekend – something about business and taking care of the properties he manages – and so Nene is left to her own devices in one of the worst states she’s found herself in. She has to call in sick from work. She can’t go out. She can barely make it from the dining room table to her bedroom without some form of setback.

As always, Amane seems to have been prepared for this. He left her packaged meals before he left, encouraging her to eat to her hearts content. He cooks for her all the time. He is very kind to her, even if sometimes Nene is a little frightened by just how far his kindness extends.

The food is good, but her condition gets worse. She doesn’t call an ambulance, because she doesn’t know what she would tell them. I’m sleepy and depressed and obviously dying because of this.

Very quickly, reality begins to blend with her dreamscape. She sees Aoi at the bottom of the stairs during the nighttime hours. She wakes up to a voicemail at three in the morning left by an anonymous caller; when she clicks on it, she hears her best friend’s bloodcurdling shrieks of terror. Minamoto Teru haunts her, stalks her property, prowls around her house like a predator studying its prey. Is that it? Is he mulling over how he’s going to catch his next victim? She refuses to answer the door when he knocks – not even when he shouts that it’s important, not even when he says that she isn’t safe. What does he know? He’s the one who—

She’s in the bathroom, sifting through the cabinets, throwing out decrepit old orange pill bottles. She looks up and Amane is behind her in the mirror. She blinks in surprise and he’s gone again. The back of her neck is still warm. Nene wonders how he always manages to get into her house—

She’s in the garden. Do they have a garden? Aoi always wanted a garden. She’s in the maybe-garden and she’s planting a radish, only it’s not a radish, it is a pale, thin, slender arm with fingernails painted an extravagant lavender hue, and Nene is powerless to do anything other than shovel more dirt onto the appendage until it disappears from sight completely. She tries to dig up the body, but her hands don’t move fast enough. She should have done more—

She’s in her bed, and she’s being jolted awake. Truly awake. Nene tries to scream, but a gloved hand covers her mouth.

Amane is leant over her.

“Yashiro,” he says, gravely, “I found her.”

Wordlessly, she nods, once. Hard. Resolute. She went to bed in her day clothes (time had long since stopped meaning much of anything to her) and so there is little she needs to do to get ready to accompany Amane. Shoes. Coat. It’s dark in the house, what time is it? It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters, except that she is finally – finally – going to be reunited with Aoi.

Before Nene can get too far out of the door, Amane draws her back in with one arm, bringing them forehead to forehead, nose to nose, breathing in one another’s air. They are so close that Nene feels it when his heartrate picks up as he caresses her cheek.

“I did this for you,” he reminds her. “It’s all for you.”

“I know,” says Nene, lips pressed into his palm. “Thank you, Amane.”

“Always. Come on, let’s go.”

“What day is it today?”

“Christmas,” Amane says from the driver’s seat. “I heard your wish loud and clear.”

Not for the first time that morning, Nene’s gratitude is intermingled with an underlying sense of insecurity. She pushes it down. Amane would never tell anything but the truth, and he’s the only person who cared enough to take Nene seriously and help her find Aoi. If anything, Nene owes Amane more than she could ever possibly give.

Perhaps this is why she doesn’t question him, when he tells her that the way to Aoi is long, and she must rest beforehand.

Perhaps this is why she doesn’t object to taking the bottle of water he hands back to her, with claims of concern for her health.

Perhaps this is why when she wakes up hours later to sand and water surrounding the car, she trusts Amane when he says to get out and follow him.

Perhaps this is why she trails dutifully behind him, slipping through nooks and crannies, hustling through underbrush, scurrying through nature’s back alleys, relying on him to direct their path.

Perhaps this is why, when they come upon the secluded one-story cabin, she clings to him as they enter inside, her fists white knuckled and tense as they dig into the back of his black jacket.

“Is the—” her fearful whisper splits in half right down the middle. “Is Minamoto here?”

Amane is silent for a beat. “No,” he finally says, without turning to look at her. “So this is the perfect time, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Nene agrees. “It’s really… wow, it’s really normal-looking in here. I can’t believe someone like him can have a cabin out in the banks, all furnished and decorated or whatever, and then he just – does these horrible, awful things. It’s sick. He’s disgusting.”

Again, Amane is silent.

“You think so?”

“I know so,” sniffs Nene, hot on Amane’s heels as he opens some sort of trap door and begins to climb down a concrete ladder. “Scum like him are so good at pretending to be normal, likable. But it’s all a ruse. Just to get close enough to their victims. And then they strike.”

“Strike?”

“Well, sure. They… they take people.”

“How?”

Nene’s brow furrows. This sure is a long way down. Some light would help guide her way. “How? Um, well. I guess he would have lured Aoi in with a false sense of security, right? Made her feel nice, take her out, call her pretty, that sort of thing. And just when she was getting really comfortable, he probably…” Nene chokes. She doesn’t like thinking about this. “… he probably tied her up and threw her in his truck and drove all the way out here. She probably woke up alone – cold, scared, on Christmas. He would have dragged her inside, and down all these stairs, and then he’d… have his way with her.”

“Are you sure?”

Nene nearly stops mid-climb. “Excuse me?”

“Must it be so violent, Yashiro?” Amane must be significantly farther down than her – his voice sounds odd. “Why couldn’t he have knocked her out for it?”

“That’s unrealistic.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. What if she woke up before they got down to – here?”

“What if she followed him willingly?”

“I can’t imagine her doing that. Aoi’s too smart.”

“What if she thought someone was in danger?”

Nene is quickly starting to lose patience with this pointless conversation. “But who, though?”

The moment her feet hit the ground, she’s seized suddenly from behind. Nene struggles in the pitch black darkness, shrieking out for Amane, but her cries for help are rendered defunct with the man himself croons low in her ear:

“You.”

Oh.

Her body goes limp with the realization. Her hands poised for attack slacken on his forearms. Her kicking legs sputter out weakly, until they drag lamely on the dirt floor. Her unseeing eyes – glassy, watery with emotion – flutter, stunned.

She cannot speak. She cannot move. All Nene can do is whimper, now properly ensnared in the spider’s web.

“I’d never hurt you though, Yashiro.” Amane’s voice is sing-songy, light and airy, flirtatious and fun as he drags her body through what feels like an endless array of catacombs. “Would never hurt a hair on your pretty little head, hm?”

Oh my god.

“The—the phone, Minamoto—”

“I planted it there, dummy.”

“In his personal storage unit?”

“People really do a terrible job at creating reliable passwords and pins nowadays.”

They take a turn, and there’s distant light up ahead. Nene tries to hone in on it, but it’s multicolored, and focusing on it for too long makes her vision blur. “Why Aoi? If you wanted me, then why did you take her?”

“She was a distraction. She was holding you back.”

“Holding me back from what?”

“Me.”

The light grows nearer. Now that Nene no longer has to strain her eyes to parse out the source, she can recognize that the forceful glimmer is actually—

A Christmas tree.

It illuminates the dank cellar just enough for Nene to look around and take in the chilling sight. A decrepit armchair with a few springs popping out of the seat sits perpendicular to the tree, with some poor excuse of a throw hung over the back of it. Mysterious stains litter the upholstery in a disturbing splatter pattern that she must look away from, if only to preserve her sanity.

The rug is dingy and cheap, if not outright taken right from the dumpster of some overstocked department store. Leaves and brush still cling to its prickly surface. Where the hell did it come from? How did he drag it all the way down here? Is this supposed to be some sick attempt at a heartwarming Christmas scene? Nene feels bile creeping up the back of her throat.

Now that Amane has brought her up close and personal, she makes the mistake of looking underneath the tree.

“Holy fucking Christ.”

“The ‘best Christmas present ever,’ right, Yashiro?” Amane’s voice jolts her back to reality. Nene startles in his arms and he lets her go, watching fondly as she stumbles around like a newborn fawn, collapsing next to the limp hand farthest away from the tree. The purple nail polish is still fresh, still bright; so bright, in fact that Nene can glimpse her own horrified face in the distorted reflection.

“Merry Christmas.”

This can’t be real.

Nene looks up and sees double. The two Amanes are laughing – absurdly, ridiculously – with arms outstretched and cheeks flushed pink. “I got you the best present ever, right? You like it, right? Right?”

“R-Right,” gasps Nene, because what else is there to do?

“December can be warm. December can be bright. I can’t wait to spend all mine with you, Yashiro. I’ll make sure you’re happy. You know I hate it when you’re upset.”

Curled next to the tree, clutching the cold, lifeless hand of her best friend, Nene smiles. It is watery and it is wobbly, but it is a smile and she knows, now, that there is no other option. “Thank you, Amane. I’m r-really happy.”

“Of course.” He crouches down to her level, and brushes the sweaty, tangled hair from in front of her face. “Anything for you. Merry Christmas, Yashiro. I love you. I always have, and I always will.”

An incessant pounding at the door awoke Aoi in the dead of night.

She was not above admitting it – Nene returning home to spend Christmas with her family left Aoi alone in their brand-new house. She felt odd, and a little strange, by herself in such an unfamiliar environment. Hopefully all of the new-neighbor activities she’d participated in would shield her from any misfortune – at least until Nene returned.

She hurried down the stairs with urgency, in fear of some poor soul needing help on Christmas night of all nights.

When she wrenched open the door, she was met with the sight of… their next door neighbor? Yugi Amane, if she remembered correctly. Before she could ask him what on Earth brought him there so late, he began to speak frantically.

“Yashiro is in danger! You’ve got to come, quickly!”

“Danger?” Mused Aoi. “I haven’t heard anything from her.”

“I know.” Amane held up a blinged-out phone, adorned with two charming hamster clip-on charms. “I found this at the end of the street.”

“Oh, God.”

“Please, come with me. And hurry. I don’t know how much time we have.”

“Oh, God, okay, okay. I’m coming.”

And so Aoi went, with no knowledge of what was in store; with no clue that they were not the only new tenants in town, and that in fact Amane moved in one month before they’d settled down, entirely on purpose, after he’d seen the activity in Nene’s bank account and connected the dots to their brand new location. And so Aoi followed him, wholly unaware that if anyone knew where Nene was, it would in fact be Amane, as he did, in fact, know where she was, as he knew where she was all the time.

And so Aoi believed him, crawling willingly into the spider’s web.

Aoi was not a stupid woman. Aoi could not ignore the red flags that waved overhead, announcing the imperfections of such a convenient danger. But if her friend was truly in distress…

For Nene, she thought. This is for Nene.

#hananene #hananene fic #hananene ao3 #tbhk ao3 #jshk ao3 #tbhk #jshk #amane yugi x yashiro nene #hanako x nene #hanako x yashiro #hanako x yashiro nene #toilet bound hanako kun #jibaku shounen hanako kun #my writing

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