when there are no second chances
13: Brothers
It's a sketch of when Makoto had been beaten up and his shoes had been stolen. When he hadn't come home and it had gotten late and so Mitsuru had grabbed his coat and boots and gone searching. When he'd found his younger brother outside the shrine, and carried him home on his back, mumbling dry encouragement whenever Makoto groaned in pain and wondering why he couldn't talk like this all the time.
It's that image, glowing with something that tugs at his heart. There's on colour in it and it's rushed. He can see it's rushed. The lines are wobbly and rough, like he hadn't had the time to erase them. He probably hadn't. He'd been lying on top of this sketch when he'd been found, like he'd fallen asleep working on it. Except his eyes had been open, and he hadn't been asleep. He'd died working on this sketch.
How much warning had he had? Was this image a work in progress even before that, or was it done especially to address his last regret? Or maybe he had other regrets as well. It's presumptuous, Mitsuru thinks, to think of himself as his little brother's only regret, or even to think of himself as a regret at all. Maybe Makoto hadn't been thinking of him at all – but he'd been working on that sketch, that displays the two of them in this tender moment.
It can be nothing else but a message to him. And it's warm, Mitsuru thinks, even without the colours. It's trying to tell him something, something Makoto never put into words. Is it gratitude? Is it as simple as that, or is there something more in it?
He remembers carrying Makoto home that night. His little brother's weight is warm on his back. Maybe that's the sort of warmth Makoto drew. Or maybe he's reading too much into things. It's illogical, after all, to see warmth represented with grey shades in a black and white drawing. It's illogical and that's why he can't understand, but wants to.
Mitsuru is no longer indistinct, in this sketch. Maybe it was because Makoto was drawing with a specific scene in mind, or perhaps Makoto had finally understood something he didn't have time to put into words.
No… Mitsuru sees the scrawl at the bottom, where the signature usually goes. Makoto did have time for a few words. "Live a colourful life."
What is a colourful life? he wonders. A life of adventure? A whirlwind of emotions? A life where every day was filled with joy? It's as indiscernible as his art.
That about settles it, he thinks. He'll be chasing the meaning of art in college, until he understands his brother's paintings, drawings and cryptic words.
And then, if there's a next life – another chance in the future somewhere – he'll understand his little brother better. Because there's no logic to that at all, but it's hope, and a purpose, and whether true or false, that's what it's meant to serve.
He turns back to the sketch. Makoto is smiling in it, despite being covered in bruises and in pain. Mitsuru is smiling too, though the worry in his gaze is palpable. He's a moment in which they came together, a moment they could have used as a springboard yet they failed to do so – but here it is nonetheless: a special moment Makoto felt the need to immortalise with the last sand grains of time.
It was as though he was acknowledging Mitsuru's love for his brother, the love he had such difficulty expressing when face to face with him. Acknowledging that, apologising for not saying it to him directly when he had the chance (because who'd thought their life would run out again, so quickly?), and telling to live: live a colourful life.
Whatever sort of life that is, he doubts Makoto means for it to be choking on regrets and indecision.
''kaa-san. 'tou-san.' He goes back downstairs. 'I want to study art at college.'