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“Our practice ran longer than I anticipated,” Shu apologised from the doorway of Kanata’s room.
Only a few nights ago, Kanata had let it slip to Rei that he wanted to visit an antique store. It was an accident because, while they had no issue talking all night, that was the one thing they didn’t talk about. Rei hadn’t commented on it at the time—he never did when it came to Mikejima—but the next morning, Kanata woke up to an empty bed and an invitation from Shu to meet up.
“Are you still interested in visiting the antique store?” he asked, hand still resting on the handle. His arms were bare, and the fabric of his shirt appeared thin and silky—a stark contrast from himself, who had yet to stop wearing sweaters. He didn’t know if he ever would.
Three months ago, his world had grown cold, and it had been over three months since he saw his friend. Who he’d seen that day, three months ago, wasn’t his friend. It didn’t look like him. It had been a stranger in a poor, swollen and blood-speckled disguise of his friend.
“Yes,” he answered. “I am ‘ready’ to leave.”
Shu stepped aside, and right before Kanata passed him, he reached for his jacket. The walk down the hallway was long, so he took his time fastening the buttons. Anything to keep his mind off that day, that ugly day with that ugly stranger.
The flowers hadn’t yet bloomed, still recovering from a long, bitter winter. It was a field of greens dulled by the grey skies. The scene would forever be imprinted in his brain because, while he didn’t care that it was all that cold stranger was staring at, he knew it was the last thing his friend saw.
Unlike today, it seemed, based on the vibrant glimpses he caught of the garden through the common room windows. He should visit it sometime, the fountain too. He knew someone, or rather two someones, were maintaining the area around the fountain for him. He hadn’t caught them, but Chiaki was still loud, and Rei would never pass up a chance to tease his unitmate. He’d visit once it warmed up a bit more. Until then, the tub would have to suffice.
There had been a chill in the air that day too; though, it had grown colder once Kanata had seen that stranger below the tree with snapped twigs and chipped bark shadowed by his shoes. Even now, after the early days of spring had given way to summer, Kanata was still cold.
Shu held the door open for him, and once they stepped outside, Kanata shoved his hands into the warmth of his pockets. “How was your ‘practice?’” he forced himself to ask.
“It…” Shu sighed. “It was fine.”
He left it there, so Kanata did as well. Shu’s company was more than enough. They didn’t need to talk for the sake of talking, but he wouldn’t have minded a distraction. He focused on the pavement in front of them instead, and when the trees cast too many chilling shadows on it, he looked at the buildings around them instead—grey.
“Kanata,” Shu said, stopping him in his tracks. “We’re here.”
The building was nice. It had faded signs and a brown exterior, tucked cosily in between two office buildings. It seemed like something Shu would like. He liked it too.
He pushed out a breathy laugh and backtracked towards the door. Shu held it open for him, but thankfully, he took the lead once they were inside. While Kanata felt lost, Shu was at home in the winding aisles.
Save for the squeaks of their shoes against the polished tile, they strolled around the store in silence. Shu guided him, not-so-subtly slowing down in front of certain shelves. Some were clearly meant for Kanata to look at, and others made Shu’s eyes light up and his fingers twitch at his side.
Kanata wouldn’t have minded if Shu picked some things for himself, but his tongue felt heavy in his mouth, so he just let his eyes glaze over whichever shelves Shu not-so-subtly slowed down in front of. The vases were pretty—too pretty, too shiny, too brand-new with fancy, handwritten tags carefully tied around the neck with twine.
Shu murmured comments mirroring his own thoughts about the vases. It wasn’t happy, but it made the air feel a little lighter as they meandered in hopeless circles around the shop. Then, he stopped in front of a shelf they’d already passed a few times.
On a shelf just above his eyeline, there was a vase: tall, curved with a thin neck and a dramatically flared top. The lid was small enough that it would be barely visible over the rim of the vase. It was almost surprising that it was large enough to not fall inside.
The rim had a couple of notches, and splotches of paint had chipped off the body. Big patches of the vase were discoloured, and the painted leaves had discoloured at some point, more teal than the vibrant green they’d once been. The vase had been well-loved—or abandoned, or both.
Shu was a few steps down the aisle from where he’d stopped, and he watched in silence as Kanata reached for the vase. It fit nicely in his arms, and he held it against himself. It had a slight chill to it, and only then did he realise he’d felt warm for a moment.
“Is that the one?”
A shaky exhale escaped him when he opened his mouth, but he managed a response afterwards: “Yes.”
With nothing else but a nod, Shu turned and led them back through all of the aisles until they reached the cashier. This vase didn’t have a fancy label, just an unnaturally white sticker slapped on the body. When Shu noticed it, he scoffed and scratched at it with his fingernail until it peeled off, not without taking a little paint off in the process.
The cashier took it with an apologetic smile, and while Kanata stared at the top of the lid, Shu handled the payment. He hadn’t even thought to bring his wallet. He’d have to pay Shu back when they returned, or later. Somewhere along their walk—before they reached the trees—Shu mentioned he had somewhere to be afterwards.
“You don’t owe me anything,” Shu said the moment they were outside, rejecting the unspoken offer. “Will you be able to make it back by yourself? I could see if—”
“Thank you, Shu.” He looked up at him. “I will be ‘okay.’”
And he was. He was cold, but he didn’t feel so alone. He spent the walk home thinking of past springs, of warm water, of Mikejima. That spring, that day, that stranger stayed out of his mind.
The dorm was empty when he returned, but for once, he didn’t mind because he wasn’t alone with the vase tucked away in his arms. He set it down next to his mother’s urn, setting the most intact flowers to face the room. Then, carefully, he turned it around, ignoring the sharp grinding sound the base made against the nightstand.
The unpleasant noise was nothing compared to the frostbite sinking into his fingers as he grasped the handle of the drawer and pulled it open. It hadn’t been opened in months. Three if he were to count—he always did. Inside, there was a treasure trove of gifts he’d bought for his friends and juniors and things he’d picked up from his ventures out to the beach. Atop the pile was the one thing that made him shut that drawer and refuse to open it.
The air was so heavy it felt like he was wading through it as he reached into the drawer, his stiff fingers curling around the necklace. Its brilliant greens and golds glimmered when he pulled out into the light. He leaned over the open drawer and nightstand to set the necklace over the front of the vase, and after a few attempts, he managed to shut the clasp. The chain sagged down over the neck of the vase.
To his disappointment, when he turned the vase back around, the jewels covered some of the flowers. But, in a way, it was fitting: troublesome, just like him.
“Just grabbin’ something!” Rinne shouted upon bursting into their room. His entrances always felt like explosions.
Kanata watched as Rinne’s eyes honed in on the vase, the urn.
He looked up at Kanata with a plastered-on grin. “Hey, Kanacchi.”
“Hello, Chief-san.”
“I just gotta grab some stuff for Kohaku-chan, then I’ll be outta yer hair.”
“You live ‘here’ too.”
“Ah, you always make me feel so welcome! Much more than Niki-kun— Got it! Alright, see ya.”
Without waiting for a response, Rinne was back out the door, the only sign he had even been there at all was a few muddy prints from the shoes he hadn’t taken off. Kanata didn’t like them.
His fists clenched at his sides, and he decided on what he needed: a good soak. He’d been needing one for a while.
Only when he stepped onto the bathroom tile did he realise that his own shoes were still on. He turned the taps on full blast before taking his shoes off and politely carrying them back to the shoe rack. On the way, he stepped on one of Rinne’s dirty shoe prints, turning the bottom of his sock brown. Kanata didn’t like that, much like how he didn’t like the brown marks on the rug. Even more so, he didn’t like that Rinne hadn’t said anything. He hadn’t in a while; no one had. It seemed like everyone was intent on forgetting Mikejima.
He didn’t want pity, but he didn’t want his friend to be any more gone than he already was. How could no one else care he was gone? That Kanata was cold? That there was a permanently empty bed two floors down? That one day, that bed would be dismantled and repurposed for whatever idol took his spot? Why did no one care?
He was in front of his nightstand, drawer still open, paper in his hand. Part of it anyway. Kanata would never know what the rest said. No one would.
“—don’t need to miss me.”
Why had Mikejima written that? Of course Kanata would miss him. Of course Kanata would miss feeling warm and whole. Why had Mikejima cursed himself to be forgotten? Had everyone else read that message and taken it to heart?
It crumpled in his hand, and a dull pang—he got those a lot lately—made his hands automatically smooth it back out. By the time he made it back to the tub, it was crushed in his fist again, but now he didn’t care. Why should he? The message never smudged. The paper never tore.
“—don’t need to miss me.” stayed. It seemed like he’d gotten his wish. One Kanata never granted. One he’d undo if he could.
Water sloshed over the side of the tub when he got in, splattering onto the floor. He’d overfilled the tub, but he didn’t care. Why should he? His roommates had stopped caring. They never commented on the wet floors anymore, even when just months ago, the tiniest of puddles would cause a complaint from Hiyori. Now, they didn’t say anything if he overfilled the tub, splashed water everywhere, and soaked the bathmat through. No one said anything.
“—don’t need to miss me.”
He held the torn scrap in his palm, vibrating with something he’d felt so many times yet never before. It hurt, and he was cold, his socks were dirty, and for the first time, the water did nothing to soothe him.
His palm sank under the waves, and the note floated to the top. The paper faded until it was translucent, but the words were so clear as if they’d imprinted themselves on the water instead.
“—don’t need to miss me.”
He struck the surface. The paper tore, and water sprayed the sides of the sink and cabinet. It began to disintegrate, so he swept the water every which way until it was gone.
They needed to miss him. He needed people to miss him.
Finally, Kanata took a breath. His vision cleared. Almost everything in the bathroom was dripping from the cyclone of whatever had consumed him. Now, the paper, the note was gone. His friend’s, Mikejima’s final message was gone.