when you remember
nezumi/shion
angst
g
562 words
Four years on and Shion is twenty now, a little older, maybe a little wiser. A little more tired, if Inukashi were still around to press him about it. The way the city spiderwebs outwards is slower than it should be by all accounts, but Inukashi flees it the way her dogs used to flee Shion's baths in wintertime, tail between her legs and guilty apology in her eyes.
Shion doesn't blame her, though. Construction here is barely bearable some days, what with the sound of rebuilding always, always in the air. It's probably his own fault too, for leaving his bedroom window open on all days and at all hours. Past the trees, the sounds of rising infrastructure filter in, bringing with it stray leaves that wander onto his desk on windy days. More often than not, there are puddles on the floor when it rains and yet, the window still stays wide open.
("It's about an obvious an invitation as he'll ever get," Karan muses quietly when she picks bits of dried leaves off the documents that Shion leaves on his table. Shion doesn't have the heart to tell her it's more a of a plea than anything.)
Eight years on and Shion is twenty four now, still hopeful, still setting two mugs out by the hot water dispenser every night. Nezumi is nowhere to be found, but Shion doesn't forget. Not the press of Nezumi's lips against his, not the brush of metal (a spoon, a blade, the space between both has blurred more than he'd like to admit) against the side of his jugular, not anything at all if he can help it.
There had been a book in Nezumi's library, shelved somewhat haphazardly between Shakespeare and Rimbaud, that Shion still remembers picking out one night. "A story for children," Nezumi had waved off with a sniff, but Shion knew the other boy had been listening.
"To die, would be an awfully big adventure," he read out out by candlelight and watched Nezumi's lips quirk just a fraction, just a few more well-chosen lines to one of those rare full fledged smiles. Sixteen then, with only a passing idea of death. Twenty four now with a better grasp and Shion himself can smile at the words now, but he still wonders if Nezumi feels the same.
Soon enough, Shion finds his own copy of J.M. Barrie one day and flips past the pages, looking for and highlighting Never say goodbye because goodbye means going away, and going away means forgetting with a less than steady hand. How he still remembers this line out of all the jumbles of prose, of old poetry that Nezumi used to feed him Shion has no idea, but he remembers and that is enough. That will be enough.
Twelve years on and Shion is twenty eight now, watching the sky darken over a young city. It's that time of the year again when the smell of ozone is always on the air, when the curtains blow inwards all night long. Shion can no longer remember how his room used to look like with the windows closed.
("An oath is not a goodbye the same way a kiss is not a betrayal," Shion screams from the balcony on the nights typhoons come charging over the buildings. "So where are you?")
Sixteen years, twenty, twenty four.
There had been a boy in the rain, once.
Warm stew, a sweater.
Hands clasped over damp sheets.
Shion thinks he remembers it right.
fin.
AN- OH MY GOD MY FEELINGS. MY. FEELINGS. Just watched the whole of No.6 in under 12 hours and askdjank /curls into ball of sadness on the floor oh god ;A;