Sound returned first.
Beeping. Steady, rhythmic. Medical equipment.
Then smell. Antiseptic. Clean sheets. Something like coffee in the distance.
Then sensation. A bed beneath him. Sheets against his skin. Weight in his limbs.
Haru opened his eyes.
White ceiling.
Fluorescent lights.
The soft hum of a hospital room.
He was back.
For a long moment, he didn't move. Didn't breathe. He just stared at the ceiling, feeling the reality of it — the solidness, the stillness, the absence of violet.
Then —
Movement beside him.
He turned his head slowly.
Empty chair.
No one.
His heart clenched.
Where is he?
He tried to sit up, but his body protested. Monitors beeped faster. A nurse rushed in.
"You're awake! Don't move, I'll get the doctor —"
Haru grabbed her arm weakly.
"Is there... another boy? Woke up recently? Green eyes?"
The nurse stared at him.
"How did you know? He woke up three days ago. Same floor. He's been asking about you."
Haru's heart soared.
"Take me to him."
"You can't walk yet —"
"Take. Me. To. Him."
The nurse hesitated, then nodded.
---
They found him in a room at the end of the hall.
Haru stood in the doorway, leaning on the nurse, barely able to stand.
And there, sitting on the edge of a hospital bed, staring out the window —
Joceka.
Real.
Solid.
Alive.
He turned when the door opened.
Green eyes met brown.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
Then —
"Haru?"
The voice was different. Deeper. More human. But the tone — the warmth — was exactly the same.
Haru crossed the room, ignoring the pain, ignoring everything.
He stopped in front of him.
"Kenji."
Joceka — Kenji — flinched slightly at the name.
"You know."
"I know everything."
Kenji looked down at his hands. "I remember fragments. The fire. Carrying you. The dreams." He looked up. "I remember watching you from my window. Wanting to talk to you. Being too scared."
Haru sat beside him.
"Why scared?"
Kenji laughed softly — a sad, honest sound.
"Because you always looked so sad. I didn't know what to say. I didn't know how to help."
Haru's throat tightened.
"But you did help. You pulled me out of the fire. You became Joceka. You saved my life — over and over."
Kenji shook his head. "I don't remember most of it."
"That's okay." Haru's voice was firm. "I remember enough for both of us."
They sat in silence, the weight of everything between them.
Then Kenji spoke quietly.
"In my dreams... in the world... there was this phrase. We said it to each other. I don't remember when, but it felt important."
Haru's heart skipped.
"What phrase?"
Kenji looked at him, green eyes soft.
"Mut ya Joceka?"
Haru's breath caught.
It was their phrase. The one they'd said in moments of danger, of connection, of love.
He smiled through tears.
"Mut ya Haru?"
Kenji's face lit up with recognition.
"Yes. That's it."
They said it together, voices overlapping:
"Mut ya Joceka. Mut ya Haru."
And then they were laughing — crying — holding onto each other like nothing else mattered.
Because nothing else did.