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His old key still fits, but Tooru isn't surprised.
The front door opens with the eerie, familiar creek of unoiled hinges. The musky smell of absence and abandonment wafts through the air around him, clinging on his white shirt, making his skin crawl. Tooru can only manage a single step into their once-shared apartment before a pang of emptiness strikes his guts, knocking his breath out, and he stops.
Faintly, beneath the musk is the scent of one Iwaizumi Hajime just after his daily runs mixed in with the scent of Iwaizumi Hajime lathering his pancakes with an unhealthy amount of maple syrup.
It's the middle of the afternoon of a chilly November day, but the shadows in the apartment overwhelms Tooru, too dark and too many in places where there shouldn't be any. Only the glass door to the veranda, where the curtains have been pulled to the side, sheds light on the single flower, already brown and wilted, sitting atop their dining table.
Tooru swallows the growing lump on his throat. He pulls on his jacket tighter around his shoulders, as if that will warm his jarred heart enough to seal the cracks he caused upon himself. There is a phantom pain at the back of his head where Iwaizumi once used to hit him repeatedly. Tooru wishes it isn't just a phantom pain.
He blinks. No tears fall. His grip on his key tightens. It hurts, but he doesn't bleed. Tooru wishes there are tears. Tooru wishes he, at least, bleeds.
He does not notice that the layer of dust on the surface of the coffee table where a Godzilla figurine rides a UFO is only thick enough for three weeks, not three years.
He does not notice the WiFi router glued to the ceiling, their apartment's dead center, still blinks bright green nor does he notice his old phone, which he charges from time to time but never really uses, still automatically connects.
He only notices the void, the grim reminder that maybe he is a little too late.
Tooru leaves the apartment slowly, unlike the last time. He closes the door gently, unlike the last time. He locks it, unlike the last time.
Tooru looks back before he descends the flight of stairs towards the exit of the building. He does not see Iwaizumi standing by the door waving a tiny goodbye, like the last time.
He brings flowers the next time he visits, a bouquet of pink carnation surrounded by white myrtles. The girl by the flower shop arranged it for him without input from Tooru's end.
There is something in your smile , the girl had said. These will let him know.
The apartment didn't change. Tooru doesn't know whether he is disappointed or relieved so he does not think. He does not allow himself to think.
He leaves his loafers in one of the empty slots of their shoe rack and wears the slippers bearing his initials handwritten in black Sharpie. It's new, but it fits his feet nicely. Tooru does not notice the similar pair of slippers, slightly torn and dirty along the edges, bearing different initials.
He hangs his apartment key on one of the hooks of the empty key hanger at the back of the door. The plastic panel still sports the conga line of spaceship stickers moving towards a Godzilla sticker with its mouth wide open, bearing its teeth.
Tooru picks the vase from the table and throws the remains of the lone flower in it outside. He traces- rubs- the intricate pattern of swirls on its surface with the only dish cloth on the kitchen counter to take the oils and grime off. He fills it half-way with water and fixes his bouquet to fit all the flowers in.
Tooru washes the lone plate, spoon, and glass sitting on the sink. He changes the brown curtains of the veranda door with the first pink set he sees in the cupboard to match his flowers. He sweeps the tiled floor of the kitchen and living room and mops them afterwards. He wets the dish cloth and wipes the dust off of every surface.
Tooru arranges the plates on the dish rack by height and rearranges them again by color a moment afterwards.
He does not check the fridge, so he does not see the bars of chocolate stacked on top of each other and the two trays of eggs, only one is still full. He does not check the laundry room, so he does not see the laundry hamper full to bursting. He does not check the bathroom, so he does not see the surplus of shampoos and hair gels of labels he once used at a time so distant in the past, when he still called this apartment his home.
Tooru does not check the bedroom.
Seven days, Tooru waits before he visits again. In another week, he'll be back in Tokyo. In another seven days, he'll lock the apartment door for the last time. Again.
Today, Tooru brings with him a packet of microwaveable popcorn, with extra butter just as they liked it, and a can of unfamiliar soda. The microwave is still the same as it was three years ago. He isn't surprised that it still works, and he sets it to a minute and a half. He watches his reflection on the glass door of the microwave.
He remembers the feeling of Iwaizumi's cheek pressed against him as they wait with unabashed excitement for the popping of the corn kernels to stop. He remembers how their breaths warmed the air around them. He remembers how bright Iwaizumi's emerald eyes on the glass door. Tooru does not see those eyes anymore. It's been three years.
The microwave pings. The familiar scent of melted butter quickly envelops the tiny kitchen, and he sighs, taking the packet without bothering to look for mittens. His hands have been calloused so much that they no longer feel the burn. Tooru returns to the living room, half-expecting company but is greeted by dead silence.
He fluffs the pillows on the sofa, patting them to release the build up dust. The smell of konbini coffee and the distinct perfume of sea breeze is strong when Tooru plops down carelessly, face buried on one of the pillows. He inhales deep and holds the warmth and the smell in the bottom of his lungs, afraid that once he exhales, the small traces of Iwaizumi will dissolve before him, afraid of the fact that maybe, he is indeed a little too late.
The moment passes. Tooru tells himself that his frequent return to this apartment does stem from his desire to see that man again. His heart lightens more with the lies than the truths.
The television opens to the logo of Netflix before settling on profiles page. There's only one profile-always had been-and it's cleverly named to include a part of their names. Tooru clicks on the profile almost instantly, a force of habit he doesn't know he's retained. He ignores the preview of The King in favor of skimming through Iwaizumi's Continue Watching list, through TV shows and movies of varying genres only half watched.
In the end, he settles for E.T. It starts in the middle of the movie.
Before long, the coldness of the air breaks his control. Tears flow unimpeded by the hundreds of masks he'd slowly constructed. His entire body shakes, tremors brought about by happy memories abrupted by a single decision he still regrets. A name escapes his lips in a desperate whimper, a plea to bring back what once was. Pathetic as he is, he cannot stop himself. It is a name he understands he longer deserves to call out, but he does so repeatedly and he does not stop himself.
Tooru wakes with puffy eyes and dry cheeks. The warmth of the morning sun still cannot defeat the chill of impending winter so he draws his knees to his torso and pulls the comforters over his head.
And then, he sits up on the bed with a panicked gasp. He's in the bedroom. Whatever stupor he'd cornered himself into last night collected the scraps of courage in his system enough to enter the bedroom. It has not changed.
Except it is void of life and brightness, and the side of the bed that isn't Tooru's is empty. But the curtains are wide open, and the night light is turned off, and the door to the bathroom is closed. He runs a hand on the empty space beside and finds it cold. He does not know whether finding it warm will hurt less or more.
He dons his many masks as he leaves the room.
And they shatter all at once when he sees an Adonis of man made of pure gold, cooking pancakes. Their eyes meet, grass against earth, but the silence remains palpable. Tooru sits on his chair on the dining table. The table has already been set: two plates, and forks, and knives, and mugs, in perfect mirror. Tooru does not dare touch them.
"Hey," they greet, simultaneously.
Tooru watches the unmoving silverware. The pan sizzles as Iwaizumi pours a cup of batter onto it.
"Good morning," they say, simultaneously.
Tooru still cannot look up. He does not want to see the illusion fade.
"Slept well?" They say, simultaneously. And then, "not really."
Iwaizumi brings a plate of pancakes on the table and slides two pieces onto Tooru's plate.
Tooru wants to cry but he picks up a half-broken mask off the floor and wraps it around his lips. He smiles when he looks up again.
Iwaizumi is seated in front of him, pouring syrup on his pancakes and diluting the tears that fall on his plate. Tooru reaches a hand to stop the man from soaking his breakfast, moves his plate a safe distance from his tears, but he lets him cry.
"Shittykawa," Iwaizumi says.
"Iwaizumi," Tooru says.
Simultaneously. Iwaizumi cries harder.
"Iwa-chan," Tooru calls.
"Tooru," Iwaizumi calls.
Simultaneously. Tooru reaches a hand half-way across the table. He lets Iwaizumi decide whether to take him back or not.
"Hajime," Tooru whispers.
Hajime takes his hand.
They eat in silence, fingers entangled. Tooru does not care that breakfast takes twice as long because he cannot cut pancakes into perfect triangles with one hand. When Hajime starts sobbing again, Tooru plays with fingers. When they've finished and Tooru moves to wash the dishes, Hajime's hold on him tightens.
"Stay," Hajime whispers. Tooru sits back down.
There are so many things they have to talk about, so many words left unsaid, regrets left to ask for forgiveness, and hurts left to heal. But, only silence reigns, warm and comfortable. Tooru does not move until Hajime smiles at him. Hajime does not smile until Tooru removes the mask on his face.
They aren't fooling Hajime, after all.
Silence reigns when Tooru picks up the dishes and silverware and goes to wash them. Silence does not reign when Tooru feels strong yet trembling arms wrap around his waist and a delicate yet hesitant kiss on the back of his neck.
There are so many things they have to talk about, but for now, this is enough.
"I'm home," Tooru says.
"Welcome home," Hajime says.
Simultaneously.
There are two keys on the key hanger by the front door, one has a Godzilla keychain-Tooru's-and the other an alien head-Hajime's.