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Akihito has spent a good several years convincing himself that everything he saw and heard in his childhood was entirely in his head, and he believes it, because it's true. It has to be true.
But of course, life is not on his side, and the day after his meds are reduced, he has a vision.
He's in the school greenhouse, early one morning, snipping wilted blossoms off a dahlia. And all of a sudden, he's somewhere else entirely. He sees countryside whiz by, smaller houses that grow as the train passes and picks up speed. He sees people holding handrails, reflected in the window.
It takes a long moment for Akihito's brain to catch up, for his thoughts to align and make sense again, and then he's pulling out, blocking the visions before he can get lost in them.
Fuck.
This has to be because of the lighter prescription. It has to be. Fuck.
Akihito takes time to breathe, tries not to panic. He refuses to think about what he saw or why or what it means; he's come too far with his therapy to regress now. He can't regress now. He can't.
The last thing he wants is for his father to make good on his threats and hospitalize him again.
Luckily, that vision is the only one, and he manages to finish deadheading the dahlia and watering the entire greenhouse by the time the warning bell rings. And, luckily, no one appears to bother him on the way to class, though there's nothing anyone can do to make him believe it'll last.
And he's right. It doesn't last. Just not quite in the way he'd expected.
The homeroom teacher walks in, and there's someone with him that no one recognizes. A transfer student. Not too strange, he thinks. But then the kid faces forward and Akihito's breath catches.
Hikaru.