Written for a Secret Santa gift exchange on facebook. My second time writing this pairing.
Twelve
"Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not;
and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad."
¬ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Like a pendulum, the pen taps the desk's glossy surface, ticking the seconds away. Its monotonous sound aligns with time, but Makoto doesn't notice. He does this absentmindedly, as his jaded eyes waver around the rest solemn faces in the office. In less than three hours, they will all be storming out of that workhole like ants, stressing and hurrying to catch the spirit of Christmas. He will be joining the swarm of red tail lights in his own car, as it forms a river of tin and flesh under the neon signs of Tokyo. Only there will be no Holidays joy for him to dive in after the last exhausting working evening, as the lights at home remain dim and all the christmas toys lay packed and webbed in his living room.
After all, Haruka has never been much of a Christmas enthusiast to decorate the house alone. Their house.
Makoto leans back to the tattered leather of his executive chair and stretches his long, well-toned legs. His gaze chases the large spots of greyscale blotching the ceiling, remnants of smoke, dirt and dreams that failed to escape and were left confined in those four cold walls. And he wonders; has his life always been like that? Which was that turning point when all the worries and obligations became a routine? When the man in the mirror flew leaving behind his shell? He can't exactly pinpoint. In his younger years, he imagined that a chain of unfortunate events might drain the souls before their time. Looking back at his common life with Haruka now, one step beyond the threshold of thirties, he realises nothing ill-fated has sullied their path. Surely his once upon a time plans of becoming a swimming coach have long ago fallen flat and he has been forced to seesaw between two unfulfilling jobs to make ends meet. But this development never differentiated him from the flock of morose people scurrying past him during rush hours. He has been aging. And , somehow, he never seized the day, as the Latin saying dictates. Instead, the world around him has been seizing and squeezing every ounce of vigor out of him. Every damn working day.
He promised Haruka that this year it would be different. That he would ease himself from the responsibilities burdening their days, that his working schedule would allow them to spend some peaceful moments in the comfort of each other's arms. That the last semester of him showing up at home for a quick shower and a restless sleep would be swept away along with the withering memories of the dying year. He promised Haruka. But, as always, he was loaded with urgent shifts and extra hours his compliant nature couldn't refuse. And those tiresome working trips away from Tokyo in the heart of December had sealed the tombstone on his hopes for Holidays' mirth.
Twelve days before Christmas, in the amber-lit lobby of a downtown hotel in Kyoto, above a notebook with faded keys and an empty glass of whiskey, Makoto tried in the spur of despair to sew back those threads of hope.
"I've told you, I don't like putting up lights and ornaments around the house on my own."
"Just the tree, Haru. As a love gift to me. Just the tree..."
The moment the phonecall regressed to silence, he had already regretted his plea. Above all, he was terrified of what his insecurities dared to suggest; that Haru had fallen out of love with this shell.
And yet, Makoto endured. Perhaps it was the soft "okay" coming from the other end of the line. Or his own inclination towards the positive aspects of life. He endured and his anticipation for the slightest sign of festive gist fluttered in his chest when, the following morning, his key clicked in their door's keyhole. The wooden barrier timidly creaked open, only to reveal every box and garland still intact. And Haru, as always, rotting away.
At least this is how Makoto perceives Haru's idleness. The dolphin boy himself seems rather content with his ordinary reality.
Haru's adventure through college was exactly how they had imagined it to be; full of swimming triumphs and cherry blossoms on his trail. As soon as Rin returned from Australia, they formed an outstanding relay team, easily beating their rivals and quickly advancing to national level. The worldwide recognition didn't delay coming and their participation in Tokyo's Olympics was meant to be the capstone of their frenzied success.
And then, Haru quitted.
While the Olympics' flag was still billowing at Makoto's balcony and the taste of champagne was still fresh on their lips, he stopped. He woke up one day and announced his decision to everyone as if it was the most logical thing to do. Just like that. Competitive swimming had completed its cycle for him.
Rin embarked on an international career and as the years rained generous down on him, he drank the nectar of success, exchanging his wins for money and his charisma for fame. Ever since, his visits to Japan have been scarce and the rare times Haruka reads a headline about a certain ex-athlete involved in a new scandal, "idiot" is all he mutters before turning the page. And yet Makoto knows that whenever the raven haired man isn't grilling his beloved mackerel or painting for hours locked in his studio, he sinks in his threadbare armchair and his azure eyes stay glued on old videos featuring their days of glory.
Returning exhausted one night, Makoto stumbled upon such a scene; an asleep Haru curling up on their sofa, the tree's parts still folded in the big cardbox and Rin's teenager smile paused indefinitely on the static TV image. That was when he decided to call the redhead.
"I don't know, Mako. I'm flying to Russia tomorrow to discuss a job. Some sports magazine I never heard of is giving me a column to blab about swimming techniques and the like. Heck, I don't even know how I'll spell my name to them, my knowledge of Russian is limited to vodka and more vodka...But I need the money..."
"You could try coming home for the holidays, at least. Everyone has missed you."
"Hmmm, I guess I could...hey, is there something you aren't telling me? Is Haru alright?"
"...yeah...Haru's fine. We are fine."
The old Rin, the one who once dragged Haru out of his bed so they would fly to Australia, wouldn't have believed him so easily. The old Makoto, the one who once called the sharkboy asking for help to save their friend, wouldn't have hesitated to admit the truth.
However, quietly reminiscing the past has only been one of Haruka's infatuations. Withdrawn in the nest they rent to shelter their love, the brunet has been painting relentlessly. Rooting back to their childhood, this devout passion oozing from every fiber of Haru's being, as his brushes skated on his pad, instilled both awe and confusion into Makoto's young heart.
"Amazing! Honestly Haru, how do you draw like this? Can I borrow some of your skill?"
"Skills, practice...pens and brushes...it's none of that. Colours don't complete my drawings. My love does."
Haru's emotions blend with his pigments. It's his love for art that breathes motion into his inked branches, making them sway against the imaginary breeze. It's his feelings for his creations that render the waterstranslucent and reflective, making his paintings come alive. So when Haru started isolating himself in the narrow room he called a "studio", spending hours after hours in the sole company of his dyes, Makoto didn't say a thing. Occasionally, the brunet would sell one of his seascapes, attracting the interest of experts who firmly believed that, with the right promotion, his works would be sought after by collectors as masterpieces. But Haruka kept turning down the one offer after the other.
"I don't paint to show off my works in a room full of strangers", he would say. "What will they understand? How will they know the reasons I made them?"
When Makoto's attempts to arrange an art exhibition for Haruka fell on the dolphin boy's deaf ears, he switched targets, bringing forth gastronomy. Anything to help his lover flee the burrows he had buried himself in and enrich his life once again.
"I'm not interested."
"But it's a want ad for a cook in a sushi bar. Good money and I know you love cooking."
"Here, in this kitchen. For you and me."
"Don't you want to try something different for a change? Getting out of this prison, doing something you like...It may be good for you."
"Makoto, that's your idea of how life turns good. I'm fine where I am. With you. With what we have."
This time, Makoto couldn't choke down his words.
"I had to take up two jobs for us to have everything you see around you."
"I never asked for anything more than my inks and the basic necessities. You don't have to worry about me, I can be self-sufficient."
"So, unless you can't cook yourself a meal or pay for your supplies, everything is alright. Where do I fit in this?"
Haru's eyebrows knitted into a frown and, after a moment of silence, he replied with the sincerety of a child.
"I didn't mean it like that. But you made it sound like I did. So I have to think about what I said."
The sands of time flowed steadily, leaving everything unscathed. The past twelve days Haruka has literally quarantine himself inside his studio. Every night, while the world outside fends off the cold with carols, Makoto returns to a darkened living room and a boyfriend incessantly working on his latest project. Haru's agitation has even risen up a notch, for not even Pebbles, their mottled alley cat, dodged his fire.
"Can you tell her to stop coming into my studio?"
"Tell her? Haru, she's a cat. I can't exactly put her on a leash."
Pebbles meandered on their beryl, shagpile carpet, before leaping on her master's welcoming arms. Makoto fondled her soft fur with affection.
"You're spoiling her too much, Makoto. You should train her."
"Train Pebbles? And when exactly will I do that? The time I have free anymore is less than a lit candle's on a stormy night."
Haruka lowered his gaze, his thumb nervously rubbing green paint off his fingertips.
"I just want her to stop sneaking in the room and scratching my tarps with her claws, or knocking my colours off their tray. That's all."
The cellphone's intrusive buzz hauls Makoto out of his maze of thoughts. Leaning over his desk, he sees Haru's name flashing on the screen. The brunet rarely calls him while he's at work, but those are the last hours before midnight signals Christmas and Makoto's heart is longing now more than ever to finally hear whispers of warmth from his boyfriend.
"Yes, Haru?"
"Makoto, on your way home, buy me two tubes of cadmium yellow light? I've run out."
Makoto takes off his glasses, his large palm kneading the tiredness off his face.
"Haru, it's Christmas Eve..."
"So?"
"I'll be finishing work about the same time the stores will be rolling down their shutters."
"So you can't get me the acrylics?"
He sighs.
"Yeah...yeah, I'll try."
Outside, the first beads of rain have begun their gentle pitter-patter on the windows, foreshadowing a wet , rather than white, Christmas day.'He used to like this', Makoto ponders. And there are many little wonders in life that both Haru and he used to like. Many delicacies they used to enjoy. It's mildly painful that their sex life is one of them. He can't exactly recall the last time a date led to sweet love-making, a dinner continued on their bedsheets, a night was set by their lust on fire. Lately, their intercourse sails at dawn; when their sleepy minds can't reject their stimulated male hormones and the clock on the nightstand keeps ticking the time.
His forehead grazed Haru's shoulderblade, pulled down by gravity and dripping with sweat. The brunet kept grinding against him, arching his back into a perfect bridge and pressing his rear firmly on Makoto's inflamed groin. From the corner of his emerald eye, Makoto took a glimpse of the clock; the pressure of time tensing up his muscles and forcing his orgasm to hit him in stressed, fitful waves. His fingers curled and dug into Haruka's flesh, too preoccupied by this automated climax to offer his lover any attention. Not that Haru was complaining. Immersed in his world behind hooded lids, his hand was working tirelessly on his own release. His back was always turned to Makoto. Always.
Pants and moans had dissipated and only the bed's creaking sound was there to remind the newborn day that two bodies were fusing into one. With one last shudder, the brunet's walls sucked Makoto in, stripping him both of his seed and mental energy. Two gasps later, Haruka was already slipping away, abruptly unsheathing his lover's penis, letting it tilt lifeless on the sheets.
"Here, wipe yourself. You'll be late for work."
Envisioning now Haruka's smooth, bare ass walking away from their bed, Makoto can't help but wish he actually found for once the guts to be late. Within him he knows he can't keep up with this charade for long. Life will find a way to move forward or further decline. Nothing remains static. In fact, his spotless mirror had cracked two days ago. Stealing the moments of his precious one-hour break, he rushed to the closest mall for food supplies, only to chance upon Rei and Nagisa boisterously picking presents for the sunny blond's horde of nieces and nephews.
"...and then I yelled 'No, don't sit there!', but it was too late, Rei-chan's sweet bum-bum was already soaked in our eggnog."
"You make it sound like a funny incident, Nagisa-kun, but really it was beyond embarrassing."
"You've been a part of the Hazuki family for way too long to get all red now, Rei-chan. Besides, I'm pretty sure the kids are up to something for Christmas as well."
"This sounds ominous. But what can I say, I just love the little rascals."
"Mhm, and they adore their uncle Butterfly as well...So what about you, Mako-chan? How are you and Haru-chan doing?"
Instinctively, his lips parted to answer, when nothing but his breath came out like a puff of warm fog breaching the cold air. His eyes dithered between their eager faces and he shook his head, as the corners of his mouth stretched into a bittersweet smile.
"Not well..."
Under different circumstances, their synchronized blinking would have been adorable.
"Huh? Mako-chan, what do you mean?"
"Is either of you sick, Makoto-senpai?"
"No, I...I just think that Haru isn't in love with me anymore."
"Eeeh?"
"Impossible, that would defy logic!"
"I've been purposely ignoring all the signs for so long. I thought that perhaps Rin's absence was at fault, or the lack of a job...but no, it's me. I know it's me. Who wants an android for a boyfriend, after all?"
"Mako-chan..."
"Yesterday night I returned from my last business trip. And my home felt lonelier than the empty streets outside. I foolishly had this hope...maybe cause Christmas was getting near, he would do this favour for me, he would put up the tree since I had no time...no time at all...God, how nagging I must be sounding to you, begging Haru for a proof of his love...Nevermind...I mean I'm trying, but he just sinks in the bathtub, or cooks, or just paints...paints for hours and -"
A hand on his forearm halted his delirious ramblings.
"Mako-chan, I can't fully understand what happened, but you shouldn't worry so much. Haru-chan has never been good with words. Sometimes through art is how he communicates."
When Makoto's shift ultimately comes to an end, the sky looms like a widow; tar-black and weeping. Fluorescent lights shine on the rain-kissed sidewalks, as pedestrians weave their way around the treacherous puddles formed where the pavement cracks. For a moment, Makoto stands still, wistfully gazing at the blurry end of the road, while countless droplets pelt his face and hiss off his trench coat. The art supplies store is at the opposite direction of his parked car, unless he dashes through the bullet-like downpour, he won't make it on time.
Behind clenched teeth, Makoto mutters a small curse.
One hour to midnight, his leaden feet finally carry him home. The place lies dark and silent, as if etched with charcoal. Pale shades of blue light faintly gleam inside their bedroom, betokening an already asleep Haru. No more bothered by the untouched Christmas toys dolefully piling up at the corner, Makoto also prepares to rest his fatigued body, when the, scratched and dented with brown varnish, door of Haru's studio slightly yields in with a low squeak. The furry culprit stares at him for a second with moonlit eyes, before scampering to rub against his legs.
"Seriously, girl, what did we agree on last time? You aren't supposed to play in there."
He walks up to the door and , for a bit, his hand hesitates on the brass handle. He can't repel the feeling he's about to taint a sanctuary, but a moody Haru over his trashed tools is an image he doesn't want to deal with on Christmas Day. After a huff, he enters.
The wan light flickers above his head, shedding an unearthly luminance throughout the oblong room. Makoto has found himself at the same spot quite a few times in the past, but tonight something – or everything – is different. Most notably, the big easel bearing Haruka's current painting, along with the jumble of tarps and palettes scattered around its base, are missing. Instead, twelve symmetrical frames are hanging in line around the walls, all of them covered with paint-smeared sheets. The cloth on the closest painting is draped limply, its edges scraping the floor, betraying Pebbles' mischiefs. Hence, when Makoto's fingers cautiously tug on the shroud, it's curiosity that has won him over.
The painting depicts a niveous landscape, with a peaceful hillside covered in spruce. Beneath the brilliant white settled on the branches, the green is still vivid and warm, intensifying nature's beauty in its purest form. The reveal leaves Makoto bewildered. It's so different than the sceneries Haruka usually paints, yet it's so realistic, that Makoto can almost inhale the sharp and refreshing smell of the needles.
It is without a second thought when he pulls the sheet off the second painting. Instantly, his eyebrows vanish beneath his hazel bangs in confusion. A strange deja vu rushes over his senses, as Makoto can swear this painting is almost identical to the previous one. The beautiful spruce forest, the snowy mountain range in the horizon, the little twigs half-buried in the powedered ground; everything is the same. Except for a peculiar detail on the canvas' bottom right. There where a small fellowship of woodsmen has now made its appearance, loading a medium sized fir on the trailer of their cadmium scarlet truck. This development piques even further Makoto's interest, all the while expanding the mystery cloaking Haruka's bizarre choice of theme.
When the third painting is unveiled, a sudden lump hitches up Makoto's throat. The scene before him is completely different. And there's no mistake. That darkness greeting him, that shadowed furniture, those curtains with the overlapping crescents lingering in the back, the faint beams cascading on that beryl carpet; their very own living room materializing before his sight. Hollow and somber as he knows it.
At a loss on what to expect, Makoto wastes a moment to brace himself before moving to the fourth painting. Once again, it's their living room. Only now all the lights are lit and a magnificent, verdant fir dominates the cozy place.
"As a love gift to me. Just the tree..."
"Sometimes through art is how he communicates."
It only takes Makoto a fragment of time to realise the meaning of all this. And his eyes to well up. The reveal of the rest paintings flows like a sequence of dreams in an enchanting tale. One after the other, the scenes unearth their festive spirit, as various, colourful ornaments embellish the canvas and its tree with magic. The fairy lights ascending the branches, the iridescent baubles, the toys overflowing the crimson socks, the steaming turkey on the jovial dining table. One merry detail completing the puzzle with every painting. One painting hanged for every day of the Christmas advent.
Makoto's tears trickle down his cold cheeks in salty streams, mingling with the rainwater that drenched his collar. The twelfth painting is adorning the wall before him, the extent of Haru's love manifesting in its still damp colours. The pain merges with joy. And it's all too much.
Makoto collapses to his knees.
What kind of heart in shreds had dared to question Haru's emotions? The proof Makoto thought he deserved is now rising more blinding than ever; this is undoubtedly the most dazzling and heartwarming Christmas tree the hazel haired man has ever laid eyes upon. Even if he can't hear the whimsical notes the little bells are eliciting. Even if the bright star is missing on top.
"I'm sorry. I didn't manage to finish it."
A familiar voice breaks the silence behind him. And as Makoto lifts his once droplets of emerald - now crimson and shattered to smithereens - so small, so surrendered on the floor, Haruka stutters.
"The...the star...I...I ran out of paint. I'm so-"
His sentence evaporates in time, as a chapped hand brings out of the trench coat's pocket two tubes of cadmium yellow light.
"No, you didn't."
In just two strides, Haru is all over Makoto, yearningly cradling his cherised head within his arms, interlacing his fingers with his wet, honey-brewed locks. Still kneeling, Makoto tightly grasps on his lover's shirt, letting his tears soak the coarse fabric and wash away the years of doubts and depression holding their hearts captive. And as the midnight engulfs them unnoticed, the ideal that once upon a time young Haruka had shaped into words, finally claims its true meaning in Makoto's face.
"Colours don't complete my drawings. My love does."
The End