Hold Still

Riku thought the numbness in his fingers was just the winter wind, until a stranger sat too close and told him he was being eaten alive. A chance encounter in a frozen park reveals that some shadows aren't just tricks of the light.

> "Because you're loud, Riku. Even when you're not saying a word."

Introduction

This chapter from "Hold Still" functions as a masterful prologue to a relationship, one built not on courtship but on a violent and necessary act of psychic intervention. It plunges the reader directly into the suffocating reality of clinical depression, rendering it as a tangible, parasitic entity. The central conflict is therefore twofold: an external, supernatural struggle against a "Gloom Parasite" and the far more profound internal struggle of its host, Riku, against the crushing weight of his own despair. The narrative bypasses conventional introductions, opting instead for a collision of two deeply isolated individuals in a space that perfectly mirrors their inner desolation—a frozen, empty park. This is not a story that begins with gentle longing; it begins with the raw, existential dread of fading away entirely.

The defining tension of this initial encounter is one of ontological friction—the clash between Riku’s state of near-dissolution and Steven’s hyper-aware, grounded presence. Riku exists in a gray, muffled world where he is actively seeking invisibility, a state so profound that his own suffering has become an external force. Steven, by contrast, moves through the world as an agent of stark, intrusive reality. He does not ask for permission to enter Riku’s space, either physically or psychically, because he perceives Riku’s condition not as a private sorrow but as a public disturbance, a "dial-up modem screaming" on a frequency only he can hear. This creates an immediate and unsettling power dynamic, where salvation is delivered through an act of aggression, and intimacy is forged from a non-consensual psychic surgery.

Ultimately, this chapter establishes a thematic thesis centered on the radical, transformative power of being truly seen. It posits that the most profound form of connection is not necessarily born of gentle understanding but of a perception so acute it can identify and name the invisible monsters that haunt another's soul. The narrative argues that for someone like Riku, who feels his pain makes him both invisible and repulsive, the most intimate act is not a soft touch or a kind word, but the unflinching gaze of someone who can look at his "walking bruise" of a soul and, rather than turning away, chooses to intervene. This initial meeting is a baptism by ice, a brutal but necessary tearing away of a destructive force, setting the stage for a bond defined by a unique and desperate codependency.

Thematic, Genre & Narrative Analysis

This narrative operates as a potent piece of psychological horror seamlessly blended with urban fantasy, using the supernatural not as escapism but as a direct allegorical framework for mental illness. The "Gloom Parasite" is a brilliant externalization of the cyclical, self-feeding nature of depression. Steven’s clinical description of the entity—"It's snagged on your isolation loop... It feeds on agitation... 'Nobody likes me, I'm alone, I should stay alone.' They eat that garbage up"—is a perfect, if blunt, summary of Cognitive Behavioral Therapy's understanding of depressive thought patterns. By transmuting an internal, often invalidated experience into a tangible monster, the story validates the sufferer's reality. Riku isn't just "sad"; he is afflicted, he is being preyed upon, and his struggle is as real and life-threatening as any physical ailment. This genre fusion allows the narrative to explore the visceral experience of mental illness with a weight and urgency that pure realism might struggle to convey, transforming a state of being into a clear and present antagonist.

The narrative voice is a masterclass in limited third-person perspective, immersing the reader entirely within Riku’s depressive sensorium. The world is rendered through his perceptual filter: the sky is "bruised iron," the trees are "black skeletons," and the cold is a "heavy, dull weight." This is not an objective description of a park; it is the architecture of Riku’s inner world projected onto his surroundings. The narrator’s reliability is not in question regarding events, but their perception is fundamentally compromised by Riku's condition. This makes Steven’s arrival all the more jarring. He pierces Riku’s solipsistic bubble of misery with a different, sharper reality. The narrative cleverly uses this clash of perceptions to explore its central existential questions. Riku’s reality is one of fading significance, a desire to "dissolve." Steven's reality is one of sharp edges, clear threats, and tangible consequences ("frostbite on your soul"). The story thus interrogates the very nature of reality, suggesting that what is real is contingent on what one is capable of perceiving.

From this collision emerges a profound moral dimension concerning the ethics of intervention. Steven’s actions are invasive and, by any normal standard, an assault. He physically restrains Riku and performs a psychic act upon him without consent. Yet, the narrative frames this as a necessary, life-saving act. This raises complex questions about agency and care. When a person is so consumed by an illness that they are actively participating in their own destruction, what does it mean to help them? The story suggests that true compassion sometimes requires a violation of personal boundaries, a forceful "slamming of the door" on a destructive internal loop that the individual is powerless to close on their own. It posits a form of intimacy that is not gentle but fiercely protective, a bond forged in the recognition that one person’s survival depends on another’s willingness to fight their demons for them, even when uninvited.

The Grounded Partner (The Seme Archetype)

Steven embodies the Grounded, or Seme, archetype not through overt romantic dominance but through an absolute and unshakable command of the narrative’s hidden reality. His psychological posture is one of weary competence; he is the seasoned mechanic who has seen this particular engine failure a thousand times. This world-weariness is his primary defense mechanism, a layer of aggressive boredom that insulates him from the chaotic emotional "static" he perceives from others. His initial interactions with Riku are framed not with concern but with annoyance—Riku is "cluttering up" his bench, "ruining the ambiance." This framing is a crucial piece of his psychological armor, allowing him to engage with profound human suffering as a mere technical problem to be solved, a form of "pest control."

The "Lie" Steven tells himself is that he is detached and acts purely out of self-interest. He claims he wants quiet, that Riku's psychic noise is an inconvenience. However, his actions betray a deeper, more complex motivation. He could have simply moved to one of the fifty other empty benches. His choice to stay, to engage, and to explain the situation to Riku—however condescendingly—belies a foundational, if deeply buried, protective instinct. His "Ghost," the past trauma that shaped him, is hinted at in his exhaustion and expertise. One does not become a casual exorcist of emotional parasites without a history of exposure. This suggests a past filled with lonely battles, either for himself or for others, which has forged his competence at the cost of his softness, leaving him with a "terrible bedside manner" and a preference for the frozen silence of a duckless pond.

Steven's "Gap Moe," the crack in his marble façade, is revealed in small, almost imperceptible moments. The first is the genuine, "unpracticed and boyish" snort in response to Riku's weak joke, a sound that momentarily dissolves the ancient weight he carries. The second, more significant, moment is when he offers the flame of his Zippo. This act is pure, symbolic care, a direct answer to the need Riku expressed with his broken lighter. He isn't lighting a cigarette; he is simply offering warmth for its own sake, a moment of unguarded giving. This reveals his desperate, unacknowledged need for connection. He needs to be the "someone who can slam the door," because this act of protection validates his strange abilities and provides a tangible purpose in a world where he is likely as isolated by his perception as Riku is by his depression. Riku's vulnerability gives Steven's power meaning, transforming him from a detached observer into a necessary guardian.

The Reactive Partner (The Uke Archetype)

Riku is the narrative’s emotional core, a perfect rendering of the Reactive, or Uke, partner whose state of being dictates the inciting action. His interiority is a landscape of profound psychic erosion, a place where the self has become so porous that it no longer feels distinct from the oppressive, cold environment. His defining insecurity is not a simple fear of being disliked but a deep-seated conviction of his own non-existence, a belief that he is already a ghost haunting the edges of his own life. This is why he doesn't just feel sad; he feels a "heavy, dull weight" that is "too physical," a sense that he is literally being crushed out of existence. His desire to "dissolve" is the ultimate expression of this fear of engulfment by a world he no longer feels a part of.

His reactions are driven by a terror of being perceived, because perception threatens his carefully constructed invisibility. When Steven speaks to him, Riku’s first instinct is defensive anger ("You're high"), a desperate attempt to invalidate Steven's observation and thus protect the fragile shell of his isolation. This isn't lashing out from a fear of abandonment—on the contrary, he is actively courting it. It is a fear of being seen, because to be seen is to be confirmed as real, and to be real is to be forced to confront the pain he is trying to escape. His vulnerability, however, is not a weakness but his most powerful, albeit unconscious, attribute. It is a "beacon," a silent scream so potent that it pierces the veil between worlds and summons the one person capable of hearing it. In this dynamic, his helplessness becomes a gift, the very thing that initiates the possibility of rescue.

Riku specifically needs the stability and intensity that Steven provides because Steven offers something beyond mere sympathy: he offers external validation of Riku's internal reality. For months, Riku has been suffocating in a silence where his pain is unacknowledged. Steven does not offer platitudes; he gives the pain a name ("Class-Three Gloom Parasite"), a form, and a tangible solution. This act of naming is profoundly powerful. It relocates the source of suffering from a defect within Riku's character ("I'm just... depressed. Or going crazy") to an external antagonist that can be fought. Steven's aggressive, grounding presence is the anchor Riku needs to stop drifting into nothingness. Steven’s intensity proves that Riku is solid enough to be impacted, to be touched, to be saved, fundamentally countering the core belief that he is already gone.

The Dynamic: Inevitability & Friction

The architecture of Riku and Steven’s relationship is forged in the crucible of metaphysical necessity, creating a dynamic that feels less like a choice and more like the inevitable collision of magnetic poles. Their energies are a study in opposites that are fundamentally complementary. Riku’s psychological state is one of entropy, a slow, cold decay into silence and stillness. His energy is implosive, drawing inward until it creates a vacuum of despair. Steven’s energy, in contrast, is kinetic and interventive. He is a force of order imposing himself on chaos, a being whose perception is an active, not a passive, sense. The friction between them arises from this core opposition: Riku’s entire being is geared toward non-interaction, while Steven’s nature compels him to diagnose and fix the psychic disturbances he encounters.

In this initial power exchange, Steven is unequivocally the Emotional Anchor. He defines the terms of their reality, explains the esoteric rules, and executes the solution. He is the fulcrum upon which the narrative's central event pivots. However, Riku serves as the Emotional Catalyst. His passive suffering is the agent of change that forces Steven out of his detached observation and into direct, physical, and psychic engagement. Without Riku’s "loud" silent broadcast of pain, Steven would have remained a bored figure on a park bench. Riku’s profound vulnerability grants Steven a sense of purpose that his isolated cynicism cannot provide on its own. The power, therefore, flows both ways: Steven holds the power to save Riku’s life, but Riku holds the power to make Steven’s strange existence meaningful.

Their union feels fated precisely because of this unique and specific interlocking of needs and abilities. It is not a relationship of convenience but of existential resonance. Riku requires a partner who can perceive the invisible weight crushing him, someone for whom his deepest, most shameful secret is as obvious as a physical deformity. Steven, in turn, requires a subject whose ailment is severe enough to demand his intervention, allowing him to exercise his abilities and, perhaps, atone for a past he keeps hidden behind a wall of weary competence. They are two sides of a single coin, each possessing the key to the other's psychic prison. Their meeting is not just a chance encounter in a park; it is the universe providing a desperately needed answer to a question each of them was suffering too silently to ask.

The Intimacy Index

The language of touch, or "skinship," in this chapter is deliberately inverted, beginning with violation and only later softening into a form of stability. The first significant physical contact is an act of containment and aggression: Steven’s hand slamming onto the bench to box Riku in. This is not a gesture of affection but of control, a necessary physical assertion to still the "agitation" on which the parasite feeds. The "exorcism" itself is described with the violent intimacy of a surgical procedure—a "hook" in the collarbone, a "tearing sensation." This brutal physicality is crucial, as it is the only language potent enough to break through Riku’s profound numbness. It is a shocking, painful touch that paradoxically brings relief, cauterizing a psychic wound through sheer force.

True intimacy emerges only after this trial by fire, and it is subtle and tentative. The most significant point of contact is the simple, sustained pressure of Steven’s knee against Riku’s. He "didn't pull away," and this small, unassuming gesture becomes a powerful anchor in the disorienting aftermath. It is a silent communication of presence, a steadying force that says, "I am still here. You are not alone." This is a far more profound intimacy than the earlier, more dramatic actions. It is a shared stillness, a quiet acknowledgment of their new, fragile connection. The offering of the Zippo flame constitutes another form of sensory intimacy, a non-physical "touch" that provides warmth and light, directly countering the cold and grayness of Riku's world. It is a moment of pure, selfless offering, a stark contrast to the initial, self-described "civic service."

The "BL Gaze" in this scene evolves from clinical diagnosis to personal recognition. Initially, Steven does not look at Riku’s face; his gaze is "terrifyingly focused" on the space above Riku’s shoulder. He is looking at the problem, the parasite, effectively separating the illness from the person. This act, while dehumanizing on the surface, is a profound gift to Riku, as it objectifies his suffering and makes it something separate from his core identity. After the parasite is destroyed, the gaze shifts. When Riku asks if he will see him again, the connection is described as a "physical impact, a hook in the gut." Steven finally looks at *Riku*, the person, and the gaze becomes a conduit for a powerful, unspoken acknowledgment. It is in this final look that the subconscious desires surface—a flicker of recognition, a hint of possessive protectiveness, and the silent promise of a future encounter dictated not by chance, but by the resonance of Riku's "static."

Emotional Architecture

The emotional landscape of this chapter is constructed with the precision of a psychological thriller, beginning in a state of profound emotional numbness and carefully escalating toward a violent, cathartic release. The initial tone is one of oppressive stasis, mirroring Riku's depressive state. The prose is laden with sensory details of cold and weight—"bone-aching cold," "bruised iron," a "wet wool blanket"—to make the reader feel Riku's internal condition as a physical reality. The repeated, futile *skrit* of the cheap lighter serves as an auditory heartbeat for his hopelessness, a small, sharp sound in a vast, muffled silence. This establishes an emotional baseline of near-zero, a vacuum of feeling that makes the subsequent intrusion all the more shocking.

The arrival of Steven immediately injects a sharp, jarring note of fear and adrenaline into the muted atmosphere. The emotional temperature skyrockets as the narrative shifts from passive suffering to active threat. The tension is built through sensory overload: the "radiant heat" of Steven's body, the "electric hum" in the air, the gravelly texture of his voice. The pacing quickens, moving from Riku’s slow, wandering thoughts to Steven’s fast, decisive actions. The climax of this emotional arc is the exorcism itself, a moment of pure, painful release. The description of the parasite's removal is deliberately visceral and violent—a "shriek," a "jolt of pure, freezing electricity," a "tearing sensation." This is not a gentle healing but a traumatic expulsion, and the narrative ensures the reader feels the agony and the subsequent, shocking relief as the weight vanishes.

In the aftermath, the emotional architecture settles into a new, fragile equilibrium. The crushing despair is gone, replaced by a mixture of awe, vulnerability, and a nascent sense of safety. The tone becomes quieter, more contemplative. The pacing slows once more, but this time the silence is not suffocating; it is a "silence that waited," filled with unspoken questions and potential. The brief, warm flare of Steven's Zippo creates a small, intimate pocket of emotional warmth, a stark contrast to the chapter's opening coldness. The narrative masterfully transfers this emotional journey to the reader, who experiences the initial oppressive weight, the terrifying intervention, and the final, breathless relief of Riku’s liberation. The empathy is not merely invited; it is constructed through a carefully orchestrated sequence of sensory and emotional pressures and releases.

Spatial & Environmental Psychology

The setting of Riverside Park is not merely a backdrop but a direct and powerful manifestation of Riku's psychological state—an objective correlative for his depression. The park in winter is a space defined by absence and decay: the trees are "black skeletons," the duck pond is "frozen solid," and the benches are empty. This landscape of suspended animation perfectly mirrors Riku’s own emotional paralysis and his feeling of being an isolated, skeletal version of himself. He chooses this space not for its beauty but for its congruence with his inner world; it is a place where his feeling of being miserable and invisible feels appropriate, even natural. The "bruised iron" sky and the smell of "wet asphalt" create a sensory environment that is both bleak and suffocating, amplifying the sense that Riku is trapped within his own desolate consciousness.

Steven’s intrusion into this space is a fundamental violation of its psychological purpose. In a park with fifty empty benches, his decision to sit on Riku’s is a deliberate act of psychological invasion, shattering the carefully maintained boundary of Riku’s isolation. The bench ceases to be a passive object and becomes a charged stage for their confrontation. By physically boxing Riku in, Steven transforms this small, public space into an intensely private, claustrophobic arena. The environment, which Riku chose for its emptiness, suddenly becomes crowded with a single, overwhelming presence. This forced proximity acts as a metaphor for the therapeutic process itself: an external force intruding upon a closed internal system to compel change.

Furthermore, the park functions as a liminal space, a threshold between the suffocating non-communication of Riku’s home and the utter oblivion he contemplates. It is a place of transition where the rules of the ordinary world are suspended, allowing for the intrusion of the supernatural. Steven's claim that he chose the bench for its "best view of the duck pond" is deeply symbolic. He is drawn to a place of stillness and frozen potential, a reflection, perhaps, of his own guarded emotional state. His disruption of Riku's "existential dread" is also a disruption of his own preferred quietude, suggesting that Riku's presence forces Steven to confront the messy, "loud" reality of emotion that he actively tries to avoid. The park, therefore, becomes an extension of both characters' psyches, a battleground where isolation is challenged and a new, shared reality is violently born.

Aesthetic, Stylistic, & Symbolic Mechanics

The prose of "Hold Still" is crafted with a deliberate, sensory precision that elevates its emotional and thematic goals. The sentence rhythm masterfully mirrors Riku’s psychological state. In the beginning, his thoughts are captured in short, fragmented, and repetitive clauses: "He should have worn gloves. He should have worn a thicker coat. He should have gone home." This staccato rhythm conveys a mind stuck in a loop of self-recrimination and paralysis. In contrast, Steven’s dialogue and actions are described with a sharp, forward-moving momentum, his sentences carrying a weight and authority that cuts through Riku’s mental fog. The diction is stark and visceral, employing synesthetic imagery like the "psychic equivalent of a dial-up modem screaming" and "frostbite on your soul" to make abstract emotional concepts feel painfully, physically real.

Symbolism is the primary engine of the chapter’s deeper meaning, most potently realized in the contrast between the two lighters. Riku’s is a "cheap, neon-orange thing," broken and gritty, capable only of producing "useless sparks." It is a perfect symbol of his own depleted vitality and his futile attempts to generate warmth or meaning in his life. Steven’s silver Zippo, by contrast, is a symbol of effortless power and control. It produces a "strong, steady flame" with a single, satisfying *clink*, representing the immediate, effective warmth and clarity he brings into Riku’s life. His offering of the flame is not just a kind gesture; it is a symbolic transfer of power and hope, a demonstration that a steady flame is possible, even in a frozen world.

The central metaphor of the "Gloom Parasite" itself is the story's most significant aesthetic choice. By externalizing depression, the narrative avoids the pitfalls of romanticizing or trivializing mental illness. The parasite is described in clinical, almost biological terms—a "feeder" that latches onto "parasitic emotional residue." This mechanic allows the story to treat Riku’s condition with a serious, tangible weight, transforming a passive state of being into an active, antagonistic force. The final image of the parasite shattering into "grey dust" provides a powerful visual catharsis, a clean, definitive break that contrasts sharply with the often ambiguous and lingering nature of real-world recovery. This stylistic choice provides a moment of clear, unambiguous victory, serving the emotional needs of the narrative while still honoring the psychological truth at its core.

Cultural & Intertextual Context

This chapter situates itself firmly within the modern evolution of the Boys' Love (BL) genre, specifically the subgenre that integrates urban fantasy and supernatural elements to explore complex psychological states. It moves beyond traditional romance tropes to use the paranormal as a lens for examining trauma, isolation, and queer identity. The dynamic between a supernaturally aware, protective Seme (Steven) and a vulnerable, psychically "loud" Uke (Riku) echoes archetypes found in works like the *Monogatari* series or the more action-oriented dynamics of series such as *Jujutsu Kaisen*, but here it is uniquely focused on the intimate, one-on-one "exorcism" of a purely psychological demon. This reframes the common "damsel in distress" trope into a more nuanced exploration of mental health, where the "monster" is a manifestation of the protagonist's own internal state.

The narrative also draws from a deep well of mythological and folkloric traditions concerning spirits or demons that feed on human emotions. The "Gloom Parasite" is a modern interpretation of entities like the succubus or incubus, which prey on life force, but it is specifically tailored to the contemporary understanding of depression as an energy-draining illness. Steven’s role as a reluctant "exorcist" or modern-day shaman places him in a lineage of characters who walk between worlds, burdened by a sight that isolates them from ordinary society. His cynical, "mechanic"-like approach is a distinctly modern, secular take on the archetype, stripping it of religious dogma and recasting it as a form of specialized, esoteric healthcare.

Furthermore, the story engages with a broader cultural conversation about the invisibility of mental illness. Riku's experience of suffering in silence, surrounded by a family that doesn't acknowledge his pain, is a poignant reflection of a widespread social issue. The narrative's central premise—that this invisible suffering is, in fact, a tangible and "loud" phenomenon to those with the right kind of perception—can be read as a powerful queer allegory. For many queer individuals, the experience of having a core part of one's identity be invisible or unacknowledged by mainstream society is a familiar reality. Steven's ability to "see" Riku's true state resonates with the profound relief of finding community or a partner who recognizes and validates one's hidden self, making the story a powerful metaphor for the life-saving potential of queer recognition and acceptance.

Reader Reflection: What Lingers

Once the immediate shock of the exorcism fades, what lingers most profoundly is the concept of being psychically "loud." Riku’s belief in his own invisibility is shattered by the revelation that his silent suffering is, in fact, a deafening broadcast. This idea reframes the nature of quiet pain, suggesting it is not an absence of expression but a powerful, albeit passive, form of communication. It leaves the reader contemplating the unseen signals we all emit, the "static" of our inner lives, and the unsettling, yet hopeful, possibility that someone, somewhere, might be attuned to our specific frequency. The story transforms solitude from a state of being alone into a state of being unheard, a subtle but crucial distinction that resonates long after the chapter ends.

The emotional afterimage is one of breathless relief, tinged with a deep and unsettling vulnerability. The reader feels the removal of the "wet wool blanket" as keenly as Riku does, creating a palpable sense of lightness and clarity. However, this relief is immediately followed by the stark realization of what this new reality entails. Riku is no longer safely numb or invisible; he has been seen, touched, and fundamentally altered by a stranger who now holds an intimate knowledge of his soul. The unanswered questions about Steven—his origins, the cost of his abilities, the nature of his own loneliness—create a lingering sense of mystery and foreboding. We are left to wonder if this rescue is a true salvation or the beginning of a far more complex and dangerous entanglement.

Ultimately, "Hold Still" reshapes the reader's perception of connection itself. It posits that the most meaningful bonds are not always forged in softness and shared joy, but can be welded together in moments of shared crisis and brutal honesty. The memory of Steven’s Zippo flame—a small, defiant point of warmth held steady against an overwhelming grey cold—becomes the story’s enduring symbol. It is not a promise of an easy future, but an affirmation of presence. It suggests that sometimes, the most important thing is not to fix someone’s darkness, but simply to be the one person willing to stand in it with them and offer a light.

Conclusion

In the end, "Hold Still" is not a story about an exorcism, but about an affirmation. The supernatural event, while dramatic, is merely the mechanism for a far more profound human interaction. Its core message lies in the transformative power of being witnessed in one's deepest moment of despair. Steven's greatest gift to Riku is not the removal of the parasite, but the initial act of seeing it, naming it, and treating it as real. This moment of radical validation proves that the heaviest burdens are not the ones others can see, but the ones we are convinced we must carry alone, and that salvation often begins with the simple, shocking realization that we are not as silent as we think.

Hold Still

A cinematic side-profile shot of two teenage boys on a winter park bench; one looks vulnerable in denim, the other intense in a wool coat, set against a soft, snowy background. - urban fantasy bl, colloquial storytelling, loneliness and isolation story, supernatural romance, boys love fiction, winter atmospheric writing, emotional supernatural connection, Short Stories, Stories to Read, Boys Love (BL), Boys Love, MM Romance, danmei, yaoi, shounen-ai, K-Boys Love (BL)
A biting winter afternoon in a desolate city park, where the mundane cold masks a parasitic supernatural presence. urban fantasy bl, colloquial storytelling, loneliness and isolation story, supernatural romance, boys love fiction, winter atmospheric writing, emotional supernatural connection, Short Stories, Stories to Read, BL, Boys Love, MM Romance, danmei, yaoi, shounen-ai, K-BL
• Supernatural/Urban Fantasy Boys Love (BL)
Riku thought the numbness in his fingers was just the winter wind, until a stranger sat too close and told him he was being eaten alive. A chance encounter in a frozen park reveals that some shadows aren't just tricks of the light.

The lighter wouldn’t catch. It was a cheap, neon-orange thing Riku had found on the sidewalk three blocks back, cracked plastic and gritty with road salt, but he kept flicking the wheel anyway. *Skrit. Skrit. Skrit.* No flame. Just a shower of useless sparks that died before they hit the frozen air.

He didn’t even smoke. He just wanted the heat. He wanted proof that something in this gray, washed-out world could still burn.

Riku shoved the lighter into the pocket of his denim jacket, jamming his hands in after it. The denim was stiff, freezing against his wrists. He should have worn gloves. He should have worn a thicker coat. He should have gone home three hours ago when the final bell rang, instead of wandering into intense, bone-aching cold of Riverside Park.

But going home meant explaining. It meant his mom’s tired eyes and his stepdad’s overly loud TV and the suffocating silence in the hallway where nobody talked about the fact that Riku hadn’t spoken a real sentence in weeks. It was easier to be here. Freezing. Miserable. Invisible.

The park was empty, mostly. A few joggers in high-vis gear blurring past on the perimeter path, exhaling clouds of steam like locomotives. The trees were black skeletons scratching at a sky that looked like bruised iron. It smelled of wet asphalt and that sharp, metallic tang of snow that hasn’t fallen yet—burning copper and car exhaust.

He hunched his shoulders, trying to disappear inside his hoodie. The cold was doing that thing where it stopped hurting and started feeling like a heavy, dull weight, pressing down on the back of his neck. It felt… physical. Too physical. Like a wet wool blanket draped over his shoulders, heavier than gravity allowed.

He shrugged, a sharp, twitchy motion. The weight didn't move. If anything, it dug in deeper, prickly and static-charged, making the hair on his arms stand up.

"Stop moving," a voice said. "You're making it dig its claws in."

Riku jumped, his knee slamming into the metal armrest of the bench. Pain shot up his leg, sharp and bright, but he barely registered it because someone was sitting next to him.

Not near him. *Next* to him.

In a park with fifty empty benches, this guy had sat on Riku’s. He was close enough that Riku could feel the radiant heat of his body, a sudden, shocking furnace against the biting wind. The stranger was wearing a coat that looked like it cost more than Riku’s entire life—thick, structured charcoal wool with a high collar turned up against the wind. He was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the empty playground ahead of them with a boredom that felt aggressive.

Riku scrambled backward, pressing himself against the far armrest. "What the hell?"

The guy didn't look at him. He had dark hair, wind-messy but deliberately so, and a profile that looked like it had been cut from cold marble—sharp nose, strong jaw, an irritating amount of careless symmetry. He was Riku’s age, maybe a year older, but he carried himself with a heaviness that felt ancient.

"I said stop moving," the stranger repeated. His voice was low, textured like gravel crunching under tires. "It feeds on agitation. The more you freak out, the heavier it gets."

Riku stared at him. The air between them felt tight, charged with an electric hum that made Riku’s teeth ache. "Who are you? There are… there are other benches."

"Those benches don't have a Class-Three Gloom Parasite sitting on them," the guy said casually, as if pointing out a pigeon. He finally turned his head. His eyes were dark, almost black, but there was no pupil visible—just an endless, absorbing depth. He looked at Riku, but not at his face. He was looking at Riku’s left shoulder, his gaze intense, clinical, and terrifyingly focused.

"A what?" Riku choked out. He tried to stand up, but his legs felt like lead. The weight on his neck flared hot, a burning itch that spread down his spine. He swatted at his shoulder instinctively. "Is there a bug?"

The stranger sighed. It was a long, weary sound, the sound of someone who had explained this a thousand times to a thousand idiots. "Don't touch it. You'll get frostbite on your soul, or whatever you want to call the energetic resonance of your nervous system."

"You're high," Riku decided, the fear transmuting into defensive anger. "You're high, and I'm leaving."

He planted his feet to shove himself upright. The moment he tensed his muscles, the air around his head *shrieked*. It wasn't a sound he heard with his ears; it was a vibration that rattled his skull, a high-pitched whine like a failing capacitor. The weight on his shoulders slammed down, forcing him back onto the slatted wood. He gasped, the breath knocked out of him.

"Told you," the stranger said. He shifted, turning his body fully toward Riku. He didn't look crazy. He looked annoyed. He looked like a mechanic looking at a car with a blown gasket. "It's snagged on your isolation loop. You've been spiraling, haven't you? Thinking about how much better off everyone would be if you just… dissolved?"

Riku’s mouth snapped shut. The cold in his chest wasn't from the wind anymore. "How do you… stop it. Get away from me."

"I can't," the guy said. "Not until I peel this thing off. It's ruining the ambiance. I come here to think, not to listen to the psychic equivalent of a dial-up modem screaming."

He moved then. Fast. Faster than a person should be able to move in a heavy coat.

One moment he was leaning back, the next he was invading Riku’s space completely. One of his hands—gloved in black leather—slammed onto the back of the bench, boxing Riku in. The other hand came up, hovering inches from Riku’s face.

"Hold still," the stranger commanded. It wasn't a request. The tone was absolute, heavy with an authority that made Riku’s brain short-circuit. His body obeyed before he could tell it not to. He froze, his breath hitching in his throat.

He was close. Too close. Riku could smell him—not alcohol or weed, but peppermint, old leather, and something sharp like sulfur. He could see the faint, pale scar cutting through the stranger's left eyebrow. He could see the way the guy’s eyelashes fluttered as he narrowed his eyes, focusing on the empty air above Riku’s shoulder.

"This is going to feel like a static shock," the guy murmured, his voice dropping an octave, rumbling right in Riku’s ear. "Maybe a big one. Don't bite your tongue."

"Wait—"

The leather-gloved hand lunged. Not at Riku, but *through* the space beside his neck.

Riku screamed, but the sound died in his throat. It felt like someone had plunged a hook into his collarbone and yanked. A jolt of pure, freezing electricity arc-welded his spine. His vision went white at the edges. He felt a tearing sensation—wet and heavy—and then the weight was gone.

The stranger exhaled a sharp hiss, his hand clenched into a fist around… nothing. Just shimmering, distorted air that looked like heat haze on a summer road, twisting and thrashing in his grip.

"Nasty little feeder," the stranger muttered. He squeezed his fist. There was a sound like a dry branch snapping, and the distortion shattered into grey dust that vanished before it hit the ground.

Riku slumped back against the bench, gasping. His heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He touched his neck. It was cold, but the crushing, suffocating weight was gone. The world felt… clearer. The grey sky looked a little less like a ceiling and more like a sky. The air felt sharper in his lungs.

He stared at the stranger, wide-eyed. "What… what did you just do?"

The guy was peeling off his glove with his teeth. Beneath the leather, his hand was red, as if he’d slapped a block of ice. He flexed his long fingers, grimacing. "Exorcism light. Pest control. Whatever helps you sleep at night."

"It was… there was something on me?"

"Parasitic emotional residue," the guy said, stuffing the glove into his pocket. He leaned back, resuming his bored posture, but his knee brushed against Riku’s. He didn't pull away. "They like the quiet ones. The sad ones. You were basically a beacon. I could see you glowing from the parking lot."

Riku rubbed his neck, his mind racing to catch up with reality. "I’m not… glowing."

"To people like me, you are. You look like a walking bruise."

It was insulting. It was invasive. It was the truest thing anyone had said to him in six months.

Riku looked at his boots. The snow around them was undisturbed. "I thought I was just… depressed. Or going crazy."

"Probably a bit of both," the stranger said, not unkindly. "The bugs just exacerbate it. They feed on the loop. 'Nobody likes me, I'm alone, I should stay alone.' They eat that garbage up. Makes them fat. Makes you heavy."

Riku huffed, a small, involuntary sound. "You have a terrible bedside manner."

The stranger turned to him again. The intensity was dialled down, replaced by a flicker of amusement. The corner of his mouth quirked up. "I'm not a doctor. I'm just a guy who wanted to sit on this specific bench because it has the best view of the duck pond, and you were cluttering it up with your existential dread."

"There are no ducks," Riku pointed out. "The pond is frozen solid."

"Exactly. I like the quiet. Or I did, until you started broadcasting your misery on all frequencies."

Riku felt a flush rise up his neck, contrasting with the biting wind. He should be terrified. He should be running. But the guy hadn’t moved his knee. The point of contact was a steady anchor in the spinning world. And strangely, Riku didn't want to move either. For the first time all day, he didn't feel like he was fading away.

"I'm Riku," he said, the words feeling clumsy on his tongue.

The stranger looked at him for a long beat. He seemed to be weighing the name, tasting it. "Steven."

"So, Steven," Riku said, trying to summon a scrap of bravado. "Do you usually assault people in parks and talk about invisible bugs?"

"Do you usually sit in freezing temperatures trying to light a lighter that’s clearly out of fluid just to feel something?" Steven countered, his eyes dropping to Riku’s pocket.

Riku flinched. "How did you—"

"I told you. I see things." Steven reached into his own coat pocket. He pulled out a silver Zippo, flipped the lid with a satisfying *clink*, and struck the flint. A strong, steady flame roared to life, yellow and blue against the grey afternoon.

He held it out. Not to light anything, just offering the flame. Offering the warmth.

Riku stared at the fire. He hesitated, then leaned in slightly, holding his numb hands toward the heat. It was a tiny radius of warmth, but it felt like a bonfire.

"Thanks," Riku whispered.

"Don't mention it." Steven didn't pull the lighter back. He held it there, his hand steady, watching Riku’s face illuminated by the flicker. "You attract them, you know. The static."

"Is that supposed to be a compliment?"

"It's a warning. You're too… open. You let the world walk right through you. You need to close the door sometimes."

"I don't know how," Riku admitted. The vulnerability of it made his stomach twist, but he couldn't lie to this boy who had just plucked a monster off his back.

Steven watched him. The look wasn't pity. It was something sharper. Recognition? He snapped the lighter shut, plunging them back into the grey, but the memory of the flame lingered in Riku’s eyes.

"You learn," Steven said. "Or you find someone who can slam the door for you."

The silence stretched, but it wasn't the suffocating silence of the hallway at home. It was a silence that waited. A silence that asked a question.

Riku shivered, but it wasn't from the cold. He looked at Steven—really looked at him. The sharp jaw, the dark eyes that saw too much, the arrogant set of his shoulders that seemed to hold up the sky. And beneath that, a strange, jagged protectiveness.

"You missed a spot," Riku said, his voice trembling slightly. He gestured vaguely to his other shoulder, a weak attempt at a joke to break the tension.

Steven snorted. It was a genuine sound, unpracticed and boyish, cracking the marble façade. "I got the big one. The rest is just your standard teenage angst. I don't charge for that."

"You charge?"

"Usually. But today’s pro bono. Consider it a civic service."

And there it was. A smile. It tugged at the corner of Riku’s mouth, reluctant and rusty, but real. It felt weird on his face, stretching skin that had been set in a grimace for weeks. "You're an asshole, Steven."

"And you're freezing, Riku." Steven stood up. The loss of his body heat was immediate and brutal. Riku felt a pang of panic—*don't go*—but Steven didn't walk away. He stood in front of Riku, blocking the wind.

"Go home," Steven commanded. "Take a hot shower. Eat something that isn't a stale pretzel. And stop playing with broken lighters."

"Will I… will I see you again?" Riku asked. The question hung in the air, desperate and naked.

Steven looked down at him. The wind whipped his dark hair across his eyes. He didn't answer immediately. He looked at the space where the 'thing' had been, then met Riku’s gaze. The connection was a physical impact, a hook in the gut.

"If the static comes back," Steven said, his voice low, "I'll know."

"How?"

"Because you're loud, Riku. Even when you're not saying a word."

Steven turned and started walking, hands deep in his pockets, striding into the grey blur of the park. Riku watched him go until the charcoal coat disappeared behind a cluster of pines.

Riku sat there for a moment longer. He reached into his pocket and touched the broken orange lighter. He pulled it out and tossed it into the trash can next to the bench. It clattered against the metal, a final, hollow sound.

He stood up. His legs were shaky, but the crushing weight was gone. He took a breath. The air tasted like snow and peppermint.

He wasn't warm. But for the first time in a long time, he wasn't freezing to death.