Forsythia
Forsythia
Kiri

All around me was scattered yellow and golden, like his hair, the first sunshine of spring hallowing the pre-leafed branches, tapping dark fingers together in response to the rush of April wind.

I'm sure they found him on a day like this, two-week old blond hair crowning his sweet innocent face, sleeping, of all things, as his mother stole away, leaving him with only a prayer for his well-being.

It's not warm, but it's warm enough out.

I wonder if his mother would have left him if she had known he would turn out like this.

I wonder if I can leave him, having seen how he has turned out.

You don't think of these things, starting a relationship. You only think of the good things, how happy you both are, how the other's eyes light up when they see you, how safe you feel in their arms.

You don't think what it will be like to leave the person you love most.

You just don't.

I feel the breeze rustle my hair, but the cold doesn't affect me. I don't let it.

I shut my eyes, sitting outside in the grass beneath the tree, forsythia flowers scattering their blond petals around me, on top of me, pinning me to the ground, pinning me-

Up against the wall, holding my shoulders there tightly with both hands, his breath suddenly against my lips, and I'm melting though it's against everything I've ever done or believed in or thought myself capable of doing and his hands are tightening slightly against my shoulders and I'm leaning into him and it's warm, so warm, and everything I've always wanted-

Was shattered by his very lips last night.

I shiver slightly, but it's not from the cold. I'm being much too melodramatic about all of this. It would be simple. I would just walk in, smile calmly, and tell him that he's right, that it is over. Completely. Then I would just go on with daily life. Living with a roommate who

hates you

can be dealt with easily enough. I would just have to ignore him. Completely.

Simple.

I can hear my breath over the wind. My heartbeat is quieter, but I can feel it, in my ears, my stomach, my thumbs, in my chest. I just listen for a moment, the warning cries of birds glistening in the new spring air. Spring was a time for new love. When things blossomed. When those old fallen leaves of autumn were turned into fresh nourishment for the new flowers. Like forsythia trees.

It was a time for celebrations, for births and marriage. How many different countries had some sort of spring pagan ritual to celebrate the worship of their god? I wonder if I should have, when he had smiled at me, invented a holiday for my personal god-

Oh, God… he's whispering in my ear, then my name. He's slightly sweaty against me, but it's more than I could ever ask for, more than I had dreamed in my entire life. He had ripped the mask from my face, and seen my ugly countenance, and he had praised and cherished and loved it, and he loved me, and he told me so then, pushing my hand away for a moment, taking me into his. Everything in me resists, trying to force away the sensations he's giving me, trying to coax myself back into the mask, but it's too much, he's too much, and I can feel myself losing control to him, drifting into him, and I can't help but give a muffled cry, his name beaded onto my lips, the son of a monk risen to god-like stature in my eyes. Perfection has been attained, and it is by him, not me, despite my efforts. And he's kissing me deeply, leaning over me, my blankets stained with our sweat and love, the room musky and hot, and he loved me, he loved me, he kept saying it over and over, again and again, drilling it into my head, my sacred scripture from the mouth of God, never to be distrusted. And I could not help but reverently murmur it back, my heart wild in my chest, fear and longing swirling inside me, his breath my wine, his lips my bread, the truest apostle to my deity.

Yet even gods can lie.

I'm still lying on my back. The ground is cold beneath me, and probably a little wet, but I can't feel it yet. I wonder if the mud will swallow me into the ground so that instead of slowly suffocating inside, I could do it on the outside. Physical pain is always easier to deal with.

I found him on a day like this.

He had been angry, distressed over something his brother had said to him, the warming spring air pulsing around us. Forsythia petals from the very tree under which he was found had just opened. It was one of the first times I had ever been to his house. It was not the last.

He was standing there, his profile a silhouette in the dying sun, beautiful and fragile and hurting, and I moved a step closer, not daring to breathe, not daring to think, not daring to exercise my straining control. He was in pain. I was there. I had to comfort him.

My voice tried to speak his name, but it would not obey me. All I could do was watch as I moved closer to him and suddenly my arms were around him, pulling him to me, embracing him gently, and I felt him stiffen slightly.

The rejection that threatened to overwhelm me in that moment was utterly unbearable. When had I ever expressed affection to anyone? But then just as suddenly, his arms were around me too, drawing me nearer, and his pained voice was right beside my ear, his breath warm against it, much warmer than the air. He was murmuring something about his brother, something about how he knew he did not belong, and my hands tightened slightly around him, praying to him that he would understand that he did belong, that he belonged with me. And in that unnatural, frightening moment, I realized that I loved him.

Loved him.

I still love him though. The wind fumbles helplessly with my shirt, caressing my cheek.

I wish I didn't.

Shinobu, he had said, his eyes not looking at mine at all, just away, sitting beside me on the bed as I searched him desperately for anything other than the signs I was seeing. I think we need some time off from each other.

All at once, the mask was exactly where it had been before him, the hurting, frightened, crying child blocked off from the real world, the calm, controlled, cold young man in his place. I replied smoothly, of course. Ice is always smooth. If that's what you want, Mitsuru, it's fine with me.

And suddenly his hurt lilac eyes turned to me, and I wanted to comfort him as I had at his house, but this time, this time it was he who had pushed me away. And I could not breach the chasm he had laid between us, not matter how hurt his eyes were.

The wind has succeeded in pushing my hair off my forehead. A forsythia petal has landed on my cheek. It stings.

I think there are many ways to die.

I think, the moment he asked so seriously to speak with me, I knew from his tone I was doomed.

Nothing I could have said could have changed anything.

I'm fairly sure he does not love me anymore.

I think that should bother me. I think that should make me cry. I think I don't know what to think anymore. I raise a finger and brush the yellow petal off my cheek, almost angrily. Why, if I had given him everything I was, would he reject me? Of course I was inferior to him – he had known that from the start. But he had sworn that he loved me, that he would always be with me, that we would live together after high school, and then forever. He had even confessed to his parents and his brother about our relationship.

And then he had twisted the words like a sword into my back, destroying everything I needed to live, leaving me to suffocate in my own blood.

He was always the sun to my moon. I was clothed in shadow, pale, only able to glow because I was reflecting him. He was the giver of life, of love, of everything good. I cycled through the sky secretly at night, sometimes not even there at all. The moon needs the sun to be seen, but the sun does not need the moon. The forsythia tree does not need leaves to bloom.

And Mitsuru clearly does not need me.

I always drifted around the outside, watching him silently. Hasukawa and Shun were his friends, not mine. I was the intruder, only there because Mitsuru had said that he cared. I was his faint shadow, almost invisible because of his radiance. Without him, I was nothing.

I am nothing.

Who else beside him had even taken notice of me, Shinobu, the actual person? Who else beside him had dared to speak candidly to me?

No one else, of course, would fall in love with me and admit that to me. Only fools fall in love with ice sculptures.

Forsythia can't grow in winter. They can only bloom when winter has passed.

Today is rather nice though. I'm looking forward to summer, when I will go home rather than to stay here in the dorms. Everyone will be surprised. I've not gone home for summer vacation before. I have had no reason to.

I wonder if my parents will be there. I'm sure Noriko will be. I shut my eyes again, blocking the golden petals from my view. I wonder how all the women seem who surround me seem to not be altogether rational. At least Noriko was not as frustrating as my sister. She had even be curious about my entering the school, always polite, my entrance exams-

Yeah, I remember, I sat in front of you during the entrance exams, he was saying, his eyes casting about the room, and I suddenly note with apprehension how beautiful he is. I reply calmly, dignified, always dignified, something nonsensical, and decide to make sure that I shall not be good friends with him. Would it be a hard three years, I wonder, watching him cheerfully start to unpack, to always observe him like this? I shake my head slightly, smiling briefly, then unload my own suitcase, almost expecting him-

To come outside and step on me, like he had done to Hasukawa over the boy's first summer break, but of course, I knew he would not. I had always been quite realistic. No need to stop now.

I can't help it, though, and I smile ruefully. He was my fantasy. He was that intangible thing that I had always, in some part of me, hoped and prayed for, some desire that had suddenly become extremely tangible, and that was almost the most amazing part. He wanted me to touch him. He liked me to touch him. He would curl tightly up again me, his words, always, always the same, his voice soft, breathing my name with a contented sigh, those words stilling everything in me. His eyes would raise and his lips would part-

I love you, Shinobu, and he smiles lazily, and I can't help but brush a long finger over his soft cheek. You're beautiful, you know, I tell him, my voice quiet and holding almost a trace of emotion. He laughs and sits up slightly to kiss my cheek, the covers of my bed dropping almost all the way off his nude body. His violet eyes are half-closed, and I know he wants to sleep, and I suddenly have the desire to compose sonnets about this shining perfection, this ethereal being, this young man that I love with all my heart and soul, but all I can do is whisper back, I love you too, Mitsuru, and yet it's not enough, it's never enough. Just those words can't convey my need, my feelings, my utter hollowness without him that I somehow always knew was there. He's almost asleep now, and I tuck the blankets up around him gently and carefully, not wanting to disturb him, but unable to sleep myself. Why me? I wonder as I slide next to him, moving slightly closer to him, not for warmth of the body but for the spirit-

Which now, mostly likely, will continue to live in constant winter.

I'm not fragile. I never have been. For some reason, though, I was always convinced that Mitsuru was, that he would be lost and floundering without me to take care of him. Denial is one of the most powerful things of the mind. I had, of course, been projecting myself onto him. It was I who was helpless without him. It was I who always had been.

The wind picks up, a strong gust that April is known for, and suddenly forsythia petals are weeping blond all around me. Individual petals are getting caught on my clothes, in my hair, tears of the sun falling onto the moon. Is he crying alone in our room? Is he upset that he doesn't love me anymore? It was his choice, of course, but I can't resent him for it. You can't harness or own light. All you can do is love it.

Slowly, I stand, the weather unexpectedly feeling somewhat chilly to me. I raise a hand to my clothes, brushing sunlit petals off me, then to my hair, then to my cheeks. I could not blame that on the day. It was not raining.

Taking a deep breath, I look toward the sky. A storm front is coming in.

He is usually a rational person. So am I.

I need to speak with him. It might be unfair to him to be so resigned now. Love, after all, demands change, not just understanding.

Forsythia trees have a habit of surviving anything and still coming back. They rooted easily. I reach my hand out and snap off part of a branch. I would root it in a glass of water and plant it somewhere, share a bit of color with the world.

Self-pity does not suit me, especially on a day such as this.

I start, hesitantly, back towards the dorms, pre-leafed sunlight clutched in my right hand.