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Crisp fall air. Tokyo’s streets are freshly paved in colored leaves; the city looked fresh. A cream-spotted sky, ever-darkening. It felt like a pretty lie. The chill of winter would come soon.
Onodera Ritsu had gotten off his shift, or rather, finished the work he had been slaving over the entire day. If he had learned anything from switching companies, it was that Marukawa was a slave driver. One of his author’s had fallen ill during a meeting, the other was reasonably late for an unreasonable deadline. Yet, he still loved the books, working on them. It was an odd cycle.
There was an anxiety in his chest, a pain in his stomach. What for?
Masamune meets his eye when he walks out of the building, handing him a latte. They were high school sweethearts to say the least, engaged since the previous spring. A happy pair. Ritsu takes the drink and rewards him with affection. It was rather early in the morning, no one was around to see the plethora of hugs and kisses delivered.
They hold hands, stroll down the street. Masamune could forget about the deal in times like these. He should.
He cannot.
Ritsu continues to talk about the stories and his revisions, Masamune continued to bob his head along. And that’s when he notices it.
“When his eyes go blank,” the occultist spoke in a chant, a rhythm, “When his eyes go blank, it is over.” That was a decade ago. It was a decade ago when Masamune, heartbroken and alone, loosely nodded his head. “He will go gruesomely, and you will not ever forget it.” She licks her dry lips. “That is the price you must pay.” His head nods.
“Now, slice your wrist.”
“Masamune, what’s the matter?” Ritsu’s empty eyes gaze through him.
He inhales sharply. “Let’s… Let’s go to the park.” Masamune lifts his knuckles up, kisses them. He pulls Ritsu across the street— the light was red, it cannot be bothered.
A dog park, dog-less. There is a single bench. Masamune sits, Ritsu discovers pathways between the leaves. Does he notice the stiffness of his movements, the coldness of his skin?
Does he already know?
“I love you, Ritsu. I always will.” Masamune crosses his legs. He cannot breathe. Has it finally come? Why now? Why ever?
Ritsu pauses, nearly tripping over his own feet. “I love you more.” Now he only steps on the fallen leaves, soaked with dew.
“No,” Masamune droops his head, “No you don’t.” The rage of a mere teenager floods to him again. ‘How can you say that!?’ the long-lost voice shouts in his head, ‘How can you say that and tie the noose!? What gave you the right!?! Who gave you the right to barge into my life and fuck it all up!?!?’ And then, the sorrow of a mere teenager. ‘Why? Why must you leave me so soon? What have I done to deserve such a thing, to lose the one I love so dear?’ The grief does not speak— it only holds action. It holds the occultist. It holds necromancy.
Ritsu slides in his leather boots, facing the broken man with a wide smile. “Yes, I do.” There is a red burn about his neck. Why must he not notice? Why must he not remember? “I’ll love you forever, Masamune.” His lips are blue. “We’ll be t-” he coughs, “We’ll always-” again. Again. He enters a fit, covering his mouth, wretching.
Masamune bites his lip, may he not dare cry. Would Masamune dare apologize? Would he bow his head and shriek his regrets, run to the occultist and beg for mercy; forgiveness? No, no. He does not deserve anything more. This is the price he had to pay for a decade more; for a better world, where none of it ever happened. It is deserved.
It halts momentarily, Ritsu pulls his hand away. His eyes are not of a man spontaneously coughing blood. His eyes are of a boy hanging in a janitor's closet, carried in the arms of a mere teenager, already gone and to never fully return. “...forever-”
Tendrils, spiraling from his mouth like wildfire. Dark chocolate branches, hell-derived. They pour from him; an exorcism. And his eyes burst from the pressure, the death barrels out with ridiculous speed. They grow flowers as fast as the expansion, sweet pink petals. Like high school, like a grand funeral. His torso bloats, his legs split and seep into the ground like a virus. His cream skin has darkened to the black of ash. The crackle of wood, of fire. His skull pops. The transformation finishes as abruptly as it began.
Among the yam and mahogany of fall stands a memorial of blush. His Ritsu. Masamune sits hopelessly in front of a cherry blossom tree, tears streaming down his face. He has given up. Wearily, he rises. A teenager again, he bows his head with the intent to pray, but no words come to mind. Not an apology, not a farewell. He has uttered that a million times in the past decade, and not once more.
A nameless man, clad in a trenchcoat, walks away. The occultist lied. He has already forgotten.