June 22nd, 2018
Slowly, things got back to normal. Kindaichi's birthday passed without much fanfare and consisted of a lowkey movie night with Kunimi. He'd received plenty of birthday wishes, though. The exam period for the first semester began on the seventeenth of July, but Kindaichi's first exam was not until the twenty-first.
Regardless, he broke his back studying.
"You'll be fine," Kunimi insisted one day in Cafe Pezzo, slurping a sugary milkshake. "Exams aren't for another month."
"I feel like I've spent more time running after bad guys than studying!" retorted Kindaichi, the bags under his eyes denoting his lack of sleep.
"Order up! For table number twenty-nine!" the chef shouted from the kitchen, and Manager Sunano Rie approached from the counter to reach for the plate. She was glowing, fully recovered and rested from her ordeal.
Hinata still intercepted, though. "Manager!" he said earnestly. "Don't work too hard, I'll bring it to the customer!"
Sunano made a face, unable to decide between being exasperated or grateful. "Come on, kiddo, I'll be fine. I'm not made of glass."
"No, it's okay! I can do it."
At that moment, Kageyama stepped into the cafe. At Hinata's suggestion, he had gotten rid of his flat bangs—now, the front of his hair was styled up so that they were suavely side-swept. It suited him well—made him look more approachable than before. Less like a brooding teenager and more of a smooth-talking gentleman.
"Well, well, if it isn't Mister MI6," Kunimi joked, waving him over. Kageyama sat down at their table, nothing in his posture to suggest that he was uncomfortable around them. "Save the Prime Minister yet?"
"Abe?" Kageyama said, hesitantly.
"Not our Prime Minister," Kindaichi said with a chuckle. "We're talking about... uh..." He turned to Kunimi, eyes wide. "Who's the Prime Minister of Britain again?"
"You dolt," scolded Kunimi. "That would be... um..." His expression went completely blank. "Gimme a second, I got this."
"You can't look it up."
"I'm not! I'm thinking, Kindaichi!"
Hinata, overhearing their conversation on the way back from delivering an egg and bacon roll to table twenty-nine, stopped by their table. "Queen Elizabeth!" he interjected with utter seriousness. "Come on, guys, keep up with the times."
"No!" Kageyama, Kunimi, and Kindaichi all shouted in unison.
"It's Theresa May," a baritone voice said from the side, and the four of them turned at once like a single entity. Kuroo cringed. "Fucking hell, that was creepy. Do you all only share one brain cell or something?" He was sitting with his white-haired model girlfriend, who was busy pushing her plate of cake around on the table so the dessert could catch the best light. Then she whipped out her phone and started snapping multiple pictures of it.
"Whoa," Hinata muttered. "You look like a supervillain, and you talk like one, too."
"Babe," Oishi interrupted, kicking Kuroo in the shin. "Which one of these is the most Picstagram-worthy?"
"Lemme see—aw man, you took, like, thirty of them."
"Ugh, you're right—I should've taken more. They all look like shit, anyway."
"Ryokaaaaa!"
Despite the din of the cafe, Kindaichi slouched across the table, feeling strangely at peace. The outing had pushed most of his exam worries to the back of his head, and it was relaxing just to exist without any pressing responsibilities once in a while. Kunimi mirrored his action, a strand of blue hair settling between his eyes. Kageyama glanced between the two of them before setting his elbows on the table and resting his chin in his palms.
Hinata had to get back to work, but he would occasionally come over to their area to strike up a conversation or two. When he wasn't around, talks between the three of them were slower and lower energy, but equally enjoyable. Or, at times, heavy.
"They sent her bones back to Sendai," Kageyama was saying, a frown etched in his brow. "Mom's probably cremated her by now."
"She didn't call you down for the funeral?" Kunimi was baffled.
Kageyama shrugged. "Don't know."
"I didn't realize you were on bad terms with your mom," Kindaichi said, ruefully.
"We're not," Kageyama corrected. "We're just..."
Kunimi ventured a guess: "Not talking at all?"
"Yeah."
"Damn."
Over the past two and a half weeks, the three of them had been reconnecting. Unpleasant memories of middle school were overwritten with silly banter and casual volleyball. Of course, it could not wipe away the bad times they'd shared as children, but—with time—the hurt would fade. Kindaichi and Kunimi knew more about Kageyama than they had ever thought they would care to know—but they didn't know everything.
"Kageyama," started Kindaichi. "What happened between you and your mom?"
Kageyama picked at a hangnail on his finger, trying to figure out how to pull it out without making it bleed. "I don't really know," he mumbled. "After I went to juvie... We just drifted apart. It seems like so long ago, but I remember—I remember that I was so angry. At the world, and at her. I remember thinking that mom gave up on Miwa." But now that he looked at it, Kageyama came to an abrupt realization. Mom didn't give up on Miwa. Mom was barely holding it together for me. It disquieted him, and he appeared to shrink into himself. "After I finished high school, I just—left. I didn't want to stay in Sendai any longer." I didn't even think about mom.
"I didn't want to stay there any longer either," admitted Kindaichi. "I wanted a fresh start. Sendai... was too suffocating."
"And I just didn't want to leave this guy alone," Kunimi added, jabbing a thumb at Kindaichi. "Pretty sure he would've imploded without me, and I was right."
"I imploded with you here, anyway."
Kunimi couldn't argue with that.
"So," concluded Kageyama. "We're all selfish, cowardly bastards."
"Yep," Kunimi agreed without hesitation.
Kindaichi rubbed the back of his neck, the edge of his hand brushing against the bristly end of his low ponytail. His hair had grown out enough for him to tie it back now. "I guess. But we don't have to be like that. I know I'm not the same person I was this April."
That was true. What was also true was that they would spend the rest of their lives working on themselves—and that was fine. Everybody else did that, anyway. It was merely a behavior that came with being human.
"Do you think I should call her?" Kageyama asked.
Neither of them said anything, but all three of them already knew the answer.
"Yes, mom," Sakusa replied into the phone, fond exasperation coloring his tone. "What, now? We're—" Sharply, he bit his lip, whipping around to see Atsumu frying rice in a wok. The blond's hair was mussed, and he was wearing one of Sakusa's shirts. Sakusa's cheeks flushed, and he forced himself to lower his eyes. "You're already on the way? You shouldn't talk on the phone while driving. What? Your car has a Bluetooth? No! No, I did not know that. Right. I'll see in you in an hour, then."
As soon as Sakusa hung up, a sputtering noise exploded from Atsumu's mouth. "Yer mom's comin' over?!"
"I tried to stop her," Sakusa sighed as he sidled up to Atsumu to pour soy sauce into a small saucer.
"I heard the whole thing! Ya barely tried!"
Sakusa scowled. "She's my mother. It's hard to argue against her, okay?"
The corners of Atsumu's lips tugged upward in a sly smile. "Scared she'll be horrified about what her princely son's been up to? That a peasant boy like me is defiling him?"
God, he made it sound so lewd. Sakusa nearly overfilled the saucer in his struggle not to choke on his saliva. "Do you have to say it like that? It's not like we're having sex."
"We are having sex, though."
"Oh, please. Blowjobs and kissing hardly constitute as sex."
"Ah. So when ya say sex, what ya really mean is—"
"Yes, Atsumu."
Atsumu's grin changed—from sly to childishly delighted. "Ya said my name."
Sakusa cocked a brow. "I've been calling you by your first name for a while now."
"Oh, I know. But ya know what they say—a thousand sunsets and a thousand opportunities for appreciation."
"Huh. I've never heard anyone say that before."
"Makes sense." Atsumu tipped the rice into a sharing plate. "Yer a city boy, after all."
As they ate breakfast together, Sakusa contemplated their relationship. He wasn't sure exactly what they were—the lines were blurred on almost all accounts. 'Friends with benefits' was probably the most apt description, but it didn't sit completely right with him. Oh well, he thought. We can cross that bridge when we get to it. For now, things were peaceful and stable—Sakusa didn't want to ruin it. Atsumu was a housemate—one of the more permanent variety, now—who he would sometimes fool around with. They had enough respect and sexual attraction for one another to be bedfellows. Beyond that, though... Are there feelings in there? Sakusa's gaze flicked up from his rice to Atsumu. Yes, there were feelings—but of the right sort? The romantic sort? He wasn't sure just yet, and he wasn't sure where Atsumu stood on the matter.
"You have rice stuck to yer chin."
Sakusa blinked, then lifted his chopsticks to pick at the grain. He found it by his upper lip. "Thanks."
"Anytime, Omi."
What, that's it? Nothing else to say about that? Sakusa rarely made a mess eating, and he would've thought that Atsumu would milk the opportunity for all it was worth. "Is there something on your mind?"
Atsumu jumped in his seat. "Eh?"
"You're distracted today."
"Oh. Am I?"
"Whatever you want to say to me... Just do it."
Atsumu's brow gradually lowered in a frown. "Omi," he began, strangely sober. "If it's not too much to ask... Do ya think you could come back with me to Hyogo tomorrow? I... I got a call last night. From, uh, the family attorney."
Sakusa sat straighter at the mention of an attorney. "Did something happen?"
"Apparently... Dad died. Liver failure. Um, he—he left everythin' to me. In his will. The house and all."
"Oh. I'm sorry, Atsumu."
"No, no!" Atsumu raised his hands in protest. "I'm not—I ain't—ah, shit. It's no loss to me. He—he was a piece of shit, anyway." His voice trembled. "So I'm not upset or anything."
"Yes," Sakusa affirmed. "But he was still your father. I'm not telling you to love him, but don't feel bad for being sad about him. It's natural."
Atsumu puffed a relieved sigh. "Okay. So... Will you come? I'll just probably need to stay a night there, and then we can go back."
Ever since Sakusa had been reinstated as a public prosecutor, he'd been spending less time with Atsumu. But I should be clear for the weekend. "I'll buy the tickets."
An hour later, both Atsumu and Sakusa were cleaned up and fully clothed—just in time for Shiko to ring the doorbell. Atsumu gulped as Sakusa went over to the front door, slippers slapping against the flooring. Okay, he coached himself. Calm down. Just be cool. She's just a little old lady. I can take her. Wait, no! What am I thinking?! I can't body-slam Omi's mother!
The door opened, agonizingly slow to Atsumu, and a black-haired, middle-aged woman stepped in and toed her shoes off at the entrance-way. She did not dress as obscenely flashy as Atsumu would've expected from a rich lady. Maybe he had been watching too many dramas. He recalled Sakusa saying something about her Victorian-chic sense of style. Oh, yeah. I can definitely see it.
Sakusa didn't really look like his mother, though. She was short, slender, and willowy while he was tall, athletically built and broad-shouldered. The softness of her cheeks were a sharp contrast from Sakusa's strong jawline. And the hair! Shiko's locks were impossibly straight, even bundled up neatly in a low bun. He must have taken after his father—Atsumu wouldn't know; he had never seen pictures of Junji before.
Sakusa received his mother warmly, hugging her. "Mom." He propped his chin on her head, eyes closing contentedly like a sleepy cat. "It's been a while."
"Kiyoomi." Shiko reached up to rub his head, further solidifying the feline image of Sakusa in Atsumu's head. He hoped he wasn't blushing too brightly. "You should call me more often, you know. And the ladies at mahjong have been asking after you."
Sakusa groaned. "Just tell them I'm busy. It's not like it's a lie."
"Oh, but I want to show them how handsome my son has grown up to be." As she held her adult son like an overgrown child, Shiko's gaze met Atsumu's, going round in surprise. "Oh... Oh! You must be Atsumu-kun." Releasing Sakusa, she gracefully approached him. "Kiyoomi's told me about you."
Atsumu laughed nervously, unsure whether to bow before or after answering her. "All good things, right?"
Shiko's eyes glimmered. "I'll let you figure that out for yourself."
"Omi!" exclaimed Atsumu, drawing Sakusa over. "Just what have you been telling this sweet, wonderful woman about me?"
"Are you really sucking up to my mother in front of me?" Sakusa retorted.
Shiko giggled, looking up at Atsumu. Under her serene stare, Atsumu cowed slightly, a lopsided smile on his face. "It's very nice to meet you, Atsumu-kun. Thank you for keeping my son company. He needs more friends."
"Mom," Sakusa complained, embarrassed.
"It's been my pleasure, Shiko-san," Atsumu said cheerily, reveling in Sakusa's discomfort. Perhaps he might have referred to her by her husband's last name had that husband not been dead. From the looks of it, it seemed that he had said the right thing. Thank god. He followed Sakusa and Shiko to the couch. Wait, why am I thinking like this, anyway? Why should I care what she thinks? She's just... Omi's mom... Atsumu resisted the urge to heave a great sigh. I think I know what's going on here. He'd known for a while that he liked Sakusa, but... Meeting his mom? This was serious territory, now. It meant that he already had one foot in the coffin.
"I saw the trial," Shiko said over tea.
"Oh," said Sakusa, and nothing more.
"I'm glad they got their punishment." Shiko's voice was surprisingly dark. After all, Shō was due to be executed and Daizen... Life imprisonment. In a way, that was an even worse punishment than death. Atsumu had heard stories of what inmates did to those who had raped and abused. "You did the right thing, Kiyoomi. You've..." She beamed. "You've made me even prouder than I already am. Ahaha! The ladies will be so jealous."
Sakusa smirked. "Using me to brag, huh?"
"As if you don't enjoy it," Atsumu ribbed.
"You've always been very prideful." Shiko joined in on the teasing. "But you do a good job of hiding it, Kiyoomi." Too bad it was absolutely ineffectual when it came to her, though, was the unspoken sentiment. She pulled a box of something out of her handbag, putting it on the coffee table. "Here—I made something for you and Atsumu-kun."
Atsumu could vaguely make out its shape, but he didn't find out what it was until she popped it open. They were cold, but he could still smell them—as if she had taken them straight out of the oven. "Cookies!"
"Cashew butter cookies," Shiko elaborated. "They're Kiyoomi's favorite."
Atsumu let Sakusa take the first cookie before taking one for himself. He bit it in half, the flavor positively orgasmic. It had just the right amount of sweetness and creamy, buttery flavor. All that combined with the nuttiness of the cashew... He swallowed. "This is awesome! Shiko-san, you're an amazing cook!"
"They taste the same," Sakusa murmured, and Atsumu wondered how long it had been since Sakusa last ate his mother's biscuits.
"Eat more!" Shiko insisted, pushing the box toward them. "I made them just for you two."
Ma could never, Atsumu found himself thinking as he tossed another cookie into his mouth. Sakusa Shiko was truly gifted with the hands of a baking goddess. Why couldn't she be my mo— He stopped that train of thought there. The only way Shiko could ever be his mother was if she adopted him (unrealistic; why would she adopt an adult son when she already had one?) or... If I became Omi's partner. Atsumu tongued the roof of his mouth, scraping off half-chewed biscuit. Besides, if Omi became my 'brother', that'd just be fuckin' weird.
Shiko stayed until late afternoon.
"I should be heading back," Shiko said, regretfully, standing from the couch. "I have to drop by your uncle's on the way home to give him dinner."
"How is Uncle Tateo?" Sakusa asked.
Shiko shook her head. "The same as ever. All he does is drink and drink... I don't know how to stop him." All of a sudden, she seemed much older than before, worn instead of sharpened by the whetstone of grief. "It's sad. I still remember him during our college days. I never thought he would end up like this." She paused, then asked Sakusa, "Did you know that your old teammates are planning a reunion?"
Sakusa narrowed his eyes. "Yeah. It's next month. How did you know about that?"
"They sent a flyer to our old apartment," explained Shiko. "I went to collect mail from there the other day and saw it."
"The apartment?" Sakusa echoed. "I haven't lived there since university. Even you don't live there anymore."
"Guess it's still registered as yer address," supposed Atsumu. "But what's the big deal, anyway? Reunions... They sound fun, if the right people are there."
"He's right. You should go," agreed Shiko. "It'll be good for you to see your old friends again."
"I don't know," Sakusa protested, weakly. "I wasn't planning on going..."
Shiko clicked her tongue. "Is it because you don't want them to pity you for Motoya?"
Silence on Sakusa's end told Atsumu that she was correct.
"I don't want them to ask stupid questions either," muttered Sakusa, looking away stubbornly. "Besides—I put that part of my life behind me a long time ago. Our eyes are at the front of our head to look forward."
"And our necks are made to turn so we can look back," Shiko rebutted, not unkindly. "I won't force you to do anything, Kiyoomi. But just think about it a bit more, okay?"
The sun was beginning its descent when Shiko left, saying goodbye to them.
"We should go out for dinner," Atsumu put out as he pulled on his jacket, "I passed by this western place, and it smelled hella good. Whaddya think, Omi-Omi?" No reply. "Omi?" Atsumu peered around his shoulder. Sakusa was standing by the couch, arms folded and eyes fixed on the ground. "Earth to Omi-kun. Omi!"
Sakusa startled. "Hm? Oh. Sorry. Are you going somewhere?"
"Dinner, but only if you're up for it, too." Atsumu retraced his steps back to Sakusa. "What's got you all spaced out, hm? Is it the reunion stuff?"
"Brilliant deduction, Atsumu," Sakusa snarked.
"Geez, someone's touchy. I won't bug ya about this, but let me just say this one thing: Yer mom's pretty smart. She knows what she's talkin' about."
Sakusa softened. "I know. Her brains were wasted on being a housewife."
"If it was what she wanted to do," Atsumu said, thoughtfully. "Then it's not a waste. It just means she chose family over being a career-woman. Nothin' wrong with that." Chose. Choice. It was so important, at least to Atsumu. Akari... Akari hadn't had a choice when she became a housewife. Not really. And the result had been a fuck-up like him. Sometimes, he wished that he had never been born.
"You're right." Sakusa gave him an odd look. "It must be a blue moon tonight."
"Oi!" Atsumu huffed. "I resent that remark."
"Come on," Sakusa brushed past him, "I'm feeling like western tonight, too."
Huh. Atsumu smiled, padding after him. So ya did hear me, Omi. How sly of ya.
June 23rd, 2018
Shirabu inhaled deeply.
An impromptu reunion.
I'm not ready.
Shirabu pushed the door open.
Too bad for me. I have to do this.
They met a restaurant in Sendai—complete with a decked-out bar and fancy patrons. Shirabu felt under-dressed in his casual-formal long-sleeved shirt and slacks. He was wearing his best shoes, as well—the pair had cost him nearly forty-thousand yen.
"Ah, it's Shirabu-kun!" Tendou spotted him first, the chocolatier half-standing from his chair and waving to him. "Heyy, Shirabu-kun!"
Shirabu tried not to grimace. He greeted everyone halfheartedly, feeling Semi's gaze bore into his temple. This is so fucking awkward... Or is it just me?
"It's very good to see you again, Shirabu," Ushijima said in that straightforward way of his. "We missed you at Goshiki's funeral."
He nearly flinched. Is this really Ushijima-san? Yes, Ushijima could be blunt—Shirabu knew that—but what he had just said... It wasn't just blunt, but it was... Strangely passive-aggressive. Or was he just imagining it? He didn't know where to hang it, this awful imagination of his. "Sorry," Shirabu said, lamely. "I had... a work commitment..."
Semi scoffed.
Shirabu glared at him, courage welling up along with shameful indignation. "What?"
"Why did you even come here?"
An awkward silence fell upon them. Not even Tendou could break it, his outward cheer sapped away by Ushijima's mention of the funeral.
"Do you all blame me, then?" Shirabu asked, abruptly. "Do you blame me for his death?"
"Shirabu," Reon tried.
"It's a yes or no question."
"And what would you do if we said yes?" sneered Semi, tilting his chin up defiantly.
Shirabu looked at them—looked at all of the few of them who had managed to make it tonight. Ushijima, Tendou, Semi, Soekawa... "Nothing," he admitted. "I just wanted to know. Unless you don't think I deserve even that. I'm not a complete idiot, you know—I know that I'm not exactly in a favorable light with you all."
"Damn right you aren't."
Shirabu glanced backward to see Kawanishi coming over in his bus boy uniform. Was this the same restaurant that Kawanishi worked at? Goddamn. Kawanishi handed them their drinks and menus. "You're not gonna join us?"
"Can't you see I'm working?" Kawanishi said, stiffly. "My shift's over in an hour. I'll join you then."
"Alright." Shirabu hid his nose behind the menu, pretending that that terse interaction hadn't just happened.
The reunion was... stilted.
Conversation was minimal, and really only occurred between Tendou and Semi (they would pull in Ushijima and Soekawa occasionally). Shirabu just sipped at his wine, the dull teeth of boredom gnawing away at his bones.
"So," said Shirabu, inviting himself into the conversation. If they weren't going to go through the trouble of doing so for him, then so be it. "Ushijima-san, why did you invite us all here...?"
"I thought it would be good to catch up," replied Ushijima, breaking eye contact with Tendou to address Shirabu. "It has to come to my attention recently that we haven't not been seeing each other."
"Yeah," Tendou piped. "I missed you big lugs."
But that's not all, is it? Shirabu smirked bitterly.
"I don't know why you're surprised," Semi said, scornfully. "Of course this was gonna happen sooner or later. Someone we know died."
Shirabu did his best to keep his voice controlled. "Look, I get it. Why don't you try hide your feelings a bit better?"
"What—like you?"
That one hurt.
"Do you even know what it was like?" Semi continued. "Standing there in the cold, watching him get buried—"
"I—" Fuck! Shirabu had spilled wine onto his shirt. Goddammit, piece of—
"He probably wouldn't know," Soekawa said plainly. He wore rings on his fingers now. For fashion, probably. "He wasn't there."
Reon frowned. "You guys... You're going too far—"
"You're wrong!" Shirabu shouted at Semi and Soekawa through clenched teeth, the part of his shirt where the wine had landed sticking to his abdomen. "I was there!"He bit down on his tongue so hard that he thought it would bleed. So many things he wanted to say—too many things. A side of him longed to cuss them out for the way they had invited him, only to ice him out, but the rest of him wanted to get on his knees and beg for forgiveness. But he didn't—they weren't the people he needed to forgive him anyway. Only one person was that, and he was dead.
Cold.
Self-contained.
Aloof.
I can't believe I ever took pride in hearing people say that about me.
Semi spoke up, blinking, "Shirabu, did—?"
But Shirabu didn't want to hear what Semi—the one who despised him the most besides Kawanishi—had to say. "Stop acting like I don't give a shit!" he snarled, though he knew very well that nobody would be able to blame them for thinking that of him. His chair screeched as he pushed it back, grabbing a napkin to dry the damp stain on his shirt and storming outside.
It wasn't long before heavy footsteps sounded behind him.
Shirabu didn't turn around, just glaring at the dark and sucking on his cancer-stick. The smoke curled in his lungs, the stress lining his body gradually falling away. Whoever was there was now standing next to him. Then he sat on the curb, their arms almost touching.
Finally, Shirabu took a peek. He blinked, surprised. "Semi."
"Shirabu," grunted Semi, taking out a pack and lighting his own cigarette. He shoved the box and lighter back into the left pocket of his leather jacket—the one with the fur-lined hood. "Ushijima made me come after you."
"Ah."
They didn't say anything more. Just quietly smoked their lives away.
"Do you still hate me?" Shirabu wondered, tapping his cigarette. Ash dropped between his designer shoes.
"It's all about you, isn't it?" snorted Semi.
Shirabu chuckled self-deprecatingly. "Old habits die hard. What's yours? Nevius?"
"No. It's Hope."
"Huh." Shirabu blew out a cloud of smoke. "Same here."
"Ironic, isn't it?" Semi commented. "Hope. But this shit is supposed to kill you. Shave the years off your life. Where's the hope in that?"
"Maybe some people find hope in death," mused Shirabu.
"Probably. In my opinion as a living person, though... There is no hope in death. The moment we get too close to death... All the hope gets sucked away. And then there's only... What's the opposite of hope?"
"Despair?"
"Yeah. Despair."
How fitting, thought Shirabu.
"Did you mean it?"
Shirabu frowned. "Mean what?"
"Did you really go to Goshiki's funeral?"
"I was late," said Shirabu. "But yes, I did go. I went with Taich—Kawanishi. It wasn't Goshiki who I didn't want to see. It was you guys."
"Oh."
"I have nothing but regrets left," Shirabu went on, "That and the last shred of my dignity. I don't even know if I have the second one, to be honest. But I knew that if I went while everyone was there, I wouldn't be able to look you all in the eye." Even now, he still wasn't looking at Semi.
"Shirabu—"
"I'm a coward. I deserve to die. In fact, I should just go kill myself right now—"
"Shut up!" Semi snapped, cigarette falling out of his mouth as he grabbed Shirabu by the collar with both hands and pulled him close. He could smell the nicotine on his breath, or maybe he was picking up his own scent. "Don't you fucking dare! We—we already lost Goshiki that way!"
"But—"
"Look!" Semi was growing hysterical. "Death doesn't solve anything! Maybe you think it does, but it fucking doesn't, okay?! Dying just means that everything is over when there's still so much left to do!"
"Semi..."
"What?!"
"Why do you care if I die or not?" It was a genuine question. "It's just for your own peace of mind, right? Your conscience won't be able to take it if I kill myself. Because then you'll start blaming yourself and then you'll kill yourself, too, and the people around you will blame themselves and the cycle will—"
"God." Semi swelled in anger. "Can you shut the fuck up for one second? Have you considered that—and hear me out here—I don't want you to die?"
"You said you hated me."
"I hate what you did," Semi corrected. "But... I don't think I can hate you. Not really. It frustrates the hell outta me sometimes, but it's true."
Shirabu's lips parted, uncertain. Smoke escaped. "I have nothing left to lose, right? So I guess I can tell you." He looked at Semi, almost imploringly. "I like you. Or I did. Back in high school. I liked you a lot, but I could never tell you because that's just the kind of person I am. I don't know how I feel about you now, though. Especially since you're doing your best to hate me. I was just some guy you knew. And I let it stay that way."
Semi was speechless. Or, well, Shirabu assumed he was. He wasn't saying anything, so—
"Why?" Semi finally said. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"I just told you. That's just the kind of person I am."
"I wish you had. Then maybe I could've said the same thing to you."
Shirabu gaped at him. "So you're saying—"
"Yes, I liked you, too. You're so fucking dense, Shirabu. Then again, so am I."
Shirabu nodded, slowly. "But it's too late now, isn't it?"
"Six years too late," said Semi. "I have a boyfriend now. Keisuke—he's my bandmate."
"Oh. The drummer?"
"Yeah—Wait. How did you know?" Semi stifled a laugh. "Have you been stalking me, Shirabu?"
"What—I—no!" Shirabu spluttered, growing red. "Well, you see—I bought your ticke—no, fuck this. I'll never tell you anything ever again."
"You bought a ticket to our concert?!" yelled Semi, getting up. "Holy shit! You?"
"I'm never telling you anything ever again!" Shirabu reiterated, shouting it this time. "This is why I don't tell people things, goddammit!" He stood as well, brushing dust off the back of his pants. His cigarette was almost at its end, so he dropped it and stamped it into the ground.
"I'm sorry," wheezed Semi. "This—this is just too good! I'll be sure to give you a shout-out, Shirabu. Maybe I'll even invite you onstage."
"Oh my god, please no—"
"Your mouth says no but your eyes say yes."
"Save that for the bedroom with your goth drummer boyfriend, Semi." Shirabu grinned, feeling his cheeks hurt—but the ache was surprisingly pleasant. He realized then that he could not recall the last time he had smiled like this.
For the first time in months, he felt alive.
Shirabu—
He would savor this moment.
