smaller and clearer as the years go by.

There's something uniquely intolerable about the way things are now, thinks Doumeki, folding his shirts with stiff, cold hands. Something unbearable about the texture of life which slips through his fingers, like sand, like silt. The days are dictated by a sort of self-deprecating routine - the brushing of teeth, consumption of food; sleeping in class, trudging to work - filled with all the trifling little minutiae of dogged existence, wearing down his soul. Occasionally it occurs to him that he must have grown up at some point, the arbitrary division between teenager and adult passing, for the most part, unnoticed, like his few remaining connections to the place he used to call home. Honestly speaking, he feels the same as he did a year ago. Sometimes he wonders if Watanuki does too.

At night he sits in the yard, yellow grass scratching his ankles, and crunches a popsicle, flecks of ice scraping on bared teeth, sticky juice-melt running down to his elbow. If this is what it feels like to grow up, well - it's certainly not all it's cracked up to be.

Afterwards he washes his hands fastidiously at the sink, rubbing soap suds between his knuckles to remove any last trace of popsicle. Hands half-dry, he sits at the kitchen table, and rereads Watanuki's letter, trying not to leave watery fingerprints on wrinkled paper. It was a few weeks ago that Doumeki found this modest missive hiding in the back of his mailbox, and he's read it so many times since then that soon it's going to fall to pieces.

Finally he puts it away, replacing it in the breastpocket of his shirt, a place of honor. There's nothing in it that wasn't there last time, even though, as always, his eyes devoured each neatly-penned line, searching for deeper meaning in the requisite Japanese greetings. With some difficulty he locates a pen in a mess of his belongings and grips it, shaking out his wrist as though preparing to strike a particularly hard blow.

And then, at last, Doumeki writes.

He posts his reply first thing in the morning, like that will help it get there any faster. If you asked him why he put it off for so long, he probably couldn't say. It's just that it was never really important what he said to Watanuki before, when there was still sincerity in actions; when Watanuki was close enough to touch. Now there are no actions except the writing and sending of the letters, and so he addresses them thoughtfully and diligently. After all, the alternative would be to let Watanuki forget him.

-

It's two months later, deep in the middle of an unforgivingly frigid winter, that Doumeki picks Watanuki up from the airport. He's steeled himself for this moment for a long time, but it's still a shock when he finally spots that messy cowlick bobbing half-hidden amongst a gaggle of other tired travelers; when their eyes meet across the barrier, and the volume on the rest of the world gets turned down, just like in the movies, indistinct people passing by with their luggage and pushing trolleys but only Watanuki's in focus, the center of life in this crowded, damp arrival hall. From that distance he can't tell for sure if Watanuki smiles, but it's enough to think that he might have.

They neither of them speak, perhaps not trusting themselves to. Watanuki hands him a suitcase, and then hugs him, awkwardly, tenderly; the moment lasts long enough for Watanuki to rest his cheek on Doumeki's shoulder, nestling his nose under the folds of Doumeki's scarf. Soon afterwards they separate, mindful of the watchful, disapproving gaze of observers, and their opinions. By now he understands that even if that doesn't bother him, it bothers Watanuki, and Watanuki's opinion is the only one that matters.

In the car Watanuki finally speaks, beginning with a simple "so how have you been" and building up from there, each of them fumbling to make contact, cracking open the thin veneer of tension and awkwardness that has enclosed their friendship like a shell to reveal something more, something new, a friendship which they have both meditated on while apart for a year and then some. It's the closest they've come to a real conversation since.., since ever, and so Doumeki takes the scenic route back, driving in slow circles about the suburban streets until darkness falls, sending moths careening into street lamps. When they finally reach home he sets Watanuki up in the spare room, himself in the bedroom next door, and falls asleep imagining the purr of an engine, one hand on the steering wheel, the windows rolled down and Watanuki breathing cold-smoke into the rushing wind.

-

In the morning, when Doumeki wakes up, he decides to simply lie in bed a while, counting the cracks in the ceiling tiles, and feeling a sort of hopeless dread congeal in his bones.

After a while, he realizes that he can smell something, warm and floury, wafting under his bedroom door, and he remembers. Someone's making pancakes in the kitchen. (He falls out of bed in his haste to leave the room, and nearly forgets to put on a shirt. He's not sure why this is important, seeing as it's nothing that Watanuki has never seen before, but - well - it's the principle of the thing.)

He stumbles into the kitchen a minute later, shirt hanging off his shoulders, buttons in the wrong buttonholes, to find Watanuki standing in front of the stove, handling a batter-filled non-stick pan with aplomb. The sight of this makes Doumeki feel a sudden strong rush of affection, and he doesn't even mind when Watanuki turns to glare at him by way of a morning greeting.

"I was jet-lagged and hungry," clarifies Watanuki, later.

"This wasn't for you, you know, I just accidentally made too many. So you may as well have some," he adds, in case Doumeki didn't get it the first time. (The dialogue is familiar, comfortable; like putting on an old jumper on the first day of spring.) Doumeki just eats, savoring the milky-buttery flavor of batter on his tongue. It's only afterwards that he realizes that something is missing.

"There's no syrup," he points out, thoughtfully. Watanuki turns, bristling. It immediately occurs to him that this is a stupid, accusatory-sounding thing to say, even though it's not meant to be anything of the sort, and Watanuki seems on the verge of responding in kind.

But then something in Doumeki's expression seems to give him pause; perhaps the notion, however fleeting, that the reason why Doumeki doesn't have any syrup for pancakes is because there was never any need for it. Until today, that is. Picturing an existence sans the need for pancakes or syrup seems to throw Watanuki for a loop, and in the end all he says is,

"Then we'll get some next time. You do go out grocery shopping, don't you?"

"... Sometimes," allows Doumeki, and looks down at his pancakes with an almost imperceptible smile.

-

The following weeks seem to Doumeki like an unexpected, undeserved blessing - a fleeting soap-bubble dream that will disintegrate the moment he closes his palm around it. Crisp morning air sees Watanuki puttering around the kitchen making breakfast, grumbling to himself about the uselessness of his host in comforting undertones; each meal is the most delicious that Doumeki has ever tasted. When Doumeki returns from class, clutching paper bags of food from the grocers: ingredients, condiments, packaged meat and fresh vegetables, Watanuki rushes in to help, scolding him insistently like a mother-hen for carrying too many things at once, what a waste it would be if he dropped any, and how did he know what to buy anyway? (The flush on his cheeks belies his pleasure at being provided for.) And so they move in tandem around each other, a dance in slow circles - like two orbiting stars, nearer, nearer, insidious gravitation tugging at hearts and minds.

It starts with glances in the hallway, like the teenagers they once were, turning away and back, each trying to catch the other off-guard. Some mornings they stand shoulder to shoulder at the bathroom sink and brush their teeth; only in the mirror do their flickering eyes dare to meet. Come evening Doumeki turns into the driveway and finds Watanuki waiting for him, seated on the lawn in regal repose. His silhouette against the clear night sky outlines the void Doumeki never knew existed in his life, until it was filled.

The climax of these secret, silent feelings comes the Saturday night they sit together on the couch, TV-watching. Doumeki sees Watanuki curled on his side, cheek on the armrest, hugging his knees to his chest, childlike in his ingenuousness. His face, illuminated by sickly movie-light, is sleepy-fuzzy with warmth and the rosy glow of satiated hunger, glasses slightly askew on his nose. Beautiful, thinks Doumeki, struggling with the implications of that word even as he feels it in his bones, a desperate and unmistakable longing.

Watanuki glances at him, worrying his lower lip insistently between teeth. For a long, breathless moment they watch each other, Doumeki buckling under weight of words he can feel on the brink of spilling over, but is struck speechless as Watanuki, with uncharacteristic directness, slips a hand over his, breezing nervous fingertips over bony knuckles.

That evening they discover how well their fingers fit together, interlocking, palm against bared palm - the comfort to be found in the space between Watanuki's cheek and his shoulder, and the nervous flutter of his lips, a shared heartbeat, a bird startled into flight. Eventually they fall asleep on the couch, Watanuki tucked into his side, one half of a whole.

Morning sun on his face brings Doumeki back into the world of the living, where he finds that he has developed a crick in his neck, and that someone has taken the liberty of drooling on his shoulder. But when Watanuki, sleepy morning-breath aside, kisses him fully awake, eyes hooded and shy, he suddenly can't remember why those things mattered at all.

-

One evening Doumeki drives them down to the coast; a rare treat for someone whose evenings are usually spent back bent over a table laden with books or work, ink stains on his fingers and wrists. He parks the car on the boundary of asphalt and sand, where dusty road gives way to powder-white dirt, and they walk together hand-in-hand down to the shore, marveling at the sensation of grit between their toes. Watanuki stoops where the tide laps invitingly at his ankles, and holds a shard of driftwood upright, like a calligraphy-pen, writing short-lived, single-line poems in the sand. Hitsuzen is bunk. Fate is feckless.

"Yuuko-san would like that," says Doumeki, tongue-in-cheek, taking everything in with a sweep of the hand: sea to sky and the salt-water rivulets eroding Watanuki's words.

Watanuki makes a soft, scoffing noise, and releases the branch at arm's length into the water's embrace; the two of them watch as it is carried out by the tide, floating on shards of cloud and moonlight-reflections. They haven't talked about the things that happened one year ago, not really - or rather, Watanuki has never brought it up, so likewise Doumeki has never asked, wary of shattering this tentative accord that they have reached.

At long last Watanuki stands, stepping back, and turns to lay his head on Doumeki's shoulder. Doumeki responds by folding an arm around his waist, tugging him close. For a while they stand there, observing the wind whipping at distant waves, and then, slowly, they make their way back to the car, sand in shoes, hair stiff from sea-spray. Watanuki falls asleep holding his hand, forehead pressed to the passenger's side window. It's difficult to drive one-handedly, but Doumeki manages, navigating streets, slow and careful. After all, he isn't about to let go.

The next week Watanuki leaves, taking one suitcase with him.

They kiss by the departure gates, unashamedly; Watanuki tangles his hands in Doumeki's hair, holding him close, and makes a soft, needy noise into his open mouth. When they part, it's at the last possible moment, and Watanuki has to make a run for it, with boarding announcements booming out over the PA system. Doumeki watches his figure recede until he's out of sight; already counting down the days in his mind to when they'll be together again.

-

Love, thinks Doumeki, almost giddily, it's a state of mind. A condition that causes breathlessness and severe mental imbalance, so you can look at someone like Watanuki, half-dressed, unkempt and unshaven, and still want to push him back onto the bed he vacated just moments ago and kiss him stupid. A longing that makes you toss and turn late into the night, struggling to sleep in an empty bed. An obsession that drives you to carry letters with you in your shirt pocket, a photograph in your wallet; little remembrances, so you never go a day without thinking of him. It's... a state of mind, where the nicest thing someone can do for you is simply to come home.

On his first day back, he makes pancakes, golden-brown, hiding his smile behind a hand, snapping at Doumeki as he digs in without restraint.

"Glutton," he scolds, eyes soft, draws careless syrup-shapes on his own breakfast. Under the table their ankles brush, and Doumeki coughs, and almost-smiles down at his plate.

If there was ever meaning in life, he thinks later, kissing batter-crumbs off Watanuki's face, let it be here: where I have found all love and beauty.

fin.