"How is university, Ritsuka?"
The autumn air is chill and crisp. Sandwiches had just been devoured, soda pops chugged. Ritsuka takes the occasion to stretch his long legs under the picnic table, causing his foot to knock against Soubi's. Ten years ago, they'd been sitting on another bench, in another park. Soubi had leaned across. Their lips had met…
"Not bad," Ritsuka shrugs, a sheepish smile brewing on his features. The leg has since been withdrawn. "Actually, I almost flunked an exam last semester. I'll catch up, though."
"Do you have friends? Do they treat you nicely?"
Ritsuka all but rolls his eyes. "Soubi, I'm fine. This isn't high school."
Ten years. Ritsuka's cat ears are gone now. His height rivals Soubi's. His voice is rich and deep. But in Soubi's eyes, Ritsuka will always be a child. Ritsuka is – has been, and always will be – a symbol of innocence.
"And what about Yuiko?" Soubi strains to ask the question.
"We – she's doing great." Ritsuka's eyes light up. "You know her, just so passionate about everything. She's been crushing her psych courses. Between us, she's really the better half."
"I'm glad." Soubi forces a smile. His finger idly travels up to his neck, just above the notch between his clavicles. It is a matter of habit. There is nothing left to touch, the scars long gone. First, there had been Beloved. Then, Loveless. For the last ten years, nothing. Soubi is not a Figher. Ritsuka is not his Sacrifice.
"Um, Soubi… I wanted to tell you something." At this, Ritsuka blushes tremendously. "Yuiko and I… we got engaged last month."
The news is of no surprise. Soubi has already seen the posts on social media: the two arm in arm, hinting at a special day… It was Kio who'd shoved the pictures in his face. He nods, forcing another smile.
"Congratulations."
Ritsuka is beaming. "And how are things with Kio?"
"Same old," Soubi snaps back. "We broke up last summer," he adds. Realising that Ritsuka didn't know.
"Wow. Jeez, I'm sorry."
"It's fine," Soubi sighs. "It was a matter of compatibility." They'd dated on and off in the last years. The outcome should have been expected.
"I can't believe I missed that," Ritsuka sighs, brown eyes concerned. "Are you holding up okay?"
"We still live together. It's not as though much has changed."
"Well, good, then." Ritsuka looks deep in thought, as though still processing this information. "Say, Soubi, do you still paint?"
"Sometimes."
He thinks of the unfinished canvas standing in his studio. It is a painting of a blue butterfly, larger than life, rendered in oil paint. Morpho menelaus. He has been working on it for three years. Every day, he finds something new to hate about it. The blue is not bright enough. The black is too harsh. The background is too dull, too noisy, too dead. He takes a roller dipped in gesso, and starts again. Blank slate. It is never good enough.
"Are you still into butterflies?"
"Something like that."
In charcoal, pastel or paint, always the same subject. Each rendition a repetition of the last. Danaus plexippus. Pieris rapae. Glaucopsyche lygdamus palosverdesensis.
"Show me something," Ritsuka continues, ever stubborn.
Soubi pulls out his phone, scrolls through the pictures. He finds Kio with a big stupid grin, reaching over his shoulder to snap the selfie of the two of them. Then, Kio with an apron on, baking fresh cookies. Kio with lollipops in his teeth. He will delete these later, along with hundreds of other pictures taken either of Kio or by Kio. Somewhere in there must be a snapshot of a drawing. If not taken by him, than by Kio.
Incredulously, he comes up empty-handed.
"When you get home," Ritsuka says, "take me some pictures. You have my email. Or send it to my Facebook. To my Instagram. Whatever's easier."
"I shall."
Later, Soubi will return to his studio, and sift through the hundreds of butterflies tacked to the wall or stashed in folders. He will decide that they are all hideous, unworthy of Ritsuka's time. He will not send pictures.
He looks up. Across from him, on the other side of the picnic table, sits Ritsuka. Lovely young strong brilliant Ritsuka. Ritsuka who has changed, yet not changed. Ritsuka who was never his.
"It was so nice catching up," Ritsuka says, and slides to the end of his bench. "We should do it more often."
"We should," Soubi replies. Later that night, Ritsuka will send a flurry of messages along with pictures of himself and Yuiko. Soubi will not write back.
They rise, two grown men in a park as the sky darkens. Ritsuka advances, opening his arms. In them, Soubi feels stiff, small.
"I'll walk you home," Soubi offers.
"As if I'm twelve," Risuka smirks. "I appreciate the thought. But I'll be fine, Soubi. Really."
It strikes Soubi that he would like to start another painting. Something far more interesting than a butterfly. He takes note of Ritsuka as the man he is now, standing tall and real before his eyes. But with a paintbrush, he can operate magic. He can reverse the sharpening of the jaw, the lengthening of the bones, the deepening of the voice. He can reverse ten years of unspoken words, of hidden affections. Once more, innocence shall conquer.
"See ya, Soubi! And good luck with the paintings!"
"Goodbye, Ritsuka."
He watches the shadow, the little shadow that is now tall and lanky, disappear off into the distance. And for a moment, in the dying light, he can almost see an ear and a tail, swishing gently and innocently until his vision clouds up with something hot and liquid and then he can't see anything at all.