Standard disclaimers apply.
II. Memoriam
Kubo-chan remembers not with red ink and calendars but with flowers and tobacco. He knows this because Kubo-chan likes tobacco, which goes without saying. It lingers in the sofa fabric and in the sheets and never quite goes away when Kubo-chan breathes at night. He also knows that Kubo-chan likes flowers enough to scrooge on dinner whenever the special discount sign goes up in the flower shop two blocks down. It's almost embarrassing the way he cradles the plant like a babe when they walk home, but Kubo-chan remains unfazed because flowers are also living things and fragile, so there's no difference.
They don't get to live as long though, he would have argued, isn't that the biggest difference of all? But he says nothing, because he knows that Kubo-chan knows this, when he buys a single bloom. Sometimes a carnation, sometimes a marigold, the names means nothing to him; it's only the colours that he remembers, when Kubo-chan transfers the flower into a small, decrepit pot and it preens superior against the drab white of the balcony walls.
And he knows that Kubo-chan likes flowers because he hums to them. He fidgets awake at dawn sometimes to stumble outside where the balcony windows are open, and he falls onto the low sofa where he sometimes sleeps best. And it's the best kind of sleep, because sometimes late in the evening, when the TV is off and the balcony windows are open, he doesn't remember settling under the covers of the bed when he fidgets awake at dawn.
Kubo-chan likes flowers, but they can't live so long, no matter how much Kubo-chan waters or hums to them. He wonders sometimes at the capability to throw them out after so much tending, but Kubo-chan shrugs because they were cheap, and it's easier to throw out one flower than a bunch. And his hand curls into a fist tight enough for the claws to break the skin, because his existence is worth nothing and he's a pretty big stray to bring home.
But Kubo-chan remembers not with red ink and calendars but with flowers and tobacco. It makes sense when the flowers on the balcony are nothing more than wildflower weeds, and the decrepit flower pot sits empty in one corner, when in the other the flowers sit in a crumpled carton of Kubo-chan's favourite cigarettes. Kubo-chan is not smoking or humming when he stumbles out of the bedroom. He falls onto the sofa but he can't sleep. Kubo-chan's back is turned and his shoulders hunched as he hangs over the balcony.
It's been about a year.
And because Kubo-chan has no cigarettes, it's fortunate that the convenience store down the road is open 24 hours. Kubo-chan is already dressed and lifting his coat off the rack when he pushes himself off the sofa and into the bedroom, yelling at the other boy to wait for him. He yells some more when Kubo-chan says he can make the short foray alone, and comes out with his shirt half over his head and still yelling, but Kubo-chan has wandered into the laundry to pile clothes into the washing machine.
He moves to close the balcony windows, but weeds though they are, the flowers are a vibrant yellow that has him crouching nearer. The washing machine has not yet started, so he stares some more before nodding decisively.
"You like him too." He nods again, a shared secret.
"I won't let him die so easily."
He gets up and slides the balcony windows shut, and when he turns around, he is humming.
-End-