Work Text:
The first time Rintarou remembers him is at the Inari gate. It is raining, not too heavily, but enough for him to seek what little shelter the torii provides. He is not alone, but is not sure of how the other person got here either, only that he stands at the other side of the gate, a few minutes after Rintarou arrived. Does he work here, or is he another visitor? Rin does not ask. He feels like he knows, but not right now, not in this moment.
Dark hair, triangular eyebrows. Perpetually sad face. He looks at me, and Rintarou looks at him, but it is too cloudy out to read his eyes.
They are alone, the world only as wide as the few meters around them and what the fog doesn’t touch.
Do I know you? He wants to ask. Come make me remember you, he wants to say. Maybe next time.
Right now, he needs nothing but the soft sound of water splashing on weathered wood and dirt ground and fern leaves, a gentle rhythm to keep us company. It is nice, but Rin does not know if rain is something he would wish for in particular. Wouldn’t a clear, sunny day be better?
The rain eventually clears, so Rintarou takes his leave. There is nothing to stay for except for an old shrine and a stranger he may not see again, and he does not look back.
—
Rintarou sees him again the next time it rains.
They are outside a cafe, but neither of them go in. Besides them, light and ambient sounds of chatter floods onto the street every time the door opens. The air is balmy, the rain is cold.
This time, Rin has an umbrella, but he's afraid to use it, as if the other will disappear as it opens. Maybe it is a little irrational, a little impossible for such a thing to happen, but not completely out of the question.
There is magic enshrined in the corners of everyday life.
It feels like they have all the time in the world, but Rin knows they do not. If the rain ended, would he still be here? Would I? Rintarou doesn’t know, and he doesn’t know when the rain will end, be it ten minutes from now, or five years from now.
So, Rintarou decides to ask him a question this time. Rintarou feels like he has the answer to this one too, but the right words are trapped under his tongue, too fuzzy and unrecognizable to shape.
“What’s your name?” Rin says, softly, enough for the words to be lost to the rain, if they wanted to be.
“Osamu,” he replies.
“Rintarou.” In return, Rin offers his own name. It’s only polite.
Osamu only nods.
People cross paths all the time, for five seconds, ten minutes, or for years.
Rintarou cannot help but feel like his own path has been intertwined with Osamu’s countless times, for countless years, yet he only knows his name.
Osamu, Osamu, pulls at his memory like the feeling of nostalgic summers, hollow streets and fluorescent lights, kids with their whole lives ahead of them. Flashes of laughter, late nights, standing up in the back of a truck hurtling down a highway, sunsets red like the blood dripping from noses and over sharp knuckles. Sometimes the buildings he knows are present in Tokyo are absent in these fleeting thoughts, replaced by traditional low houses, a lifetime he should not recall, yet he does.
He is always with someone, he knows. Rin can see himself in his head clearly, but he holds hands with no one in particular, a faceless mass with the feeling of belonging.
Maybe Osamu is the answer, and maybe he isn’t, but it doesn’t matter to him. Right now is all Rintarou needs.
—
He is only with Rintarou when it rains. Rintarou wishes it would rain forever. The world slows down, and he is left with the sounds of water droplets kissing the pavement.
Rintarou has lost track of how many times they’ve met. The days pass in a way that he does not care to count. He only knows when the rain will come. Sometimes, Rintarou will offer things about himself. Osamu tells him things too, but not much. Sometimes, they do stupid things like run around in the rain, soaking themselves to the bone for the fun of it.
Today, Osamu tells Rin that he’ll catch a cold standing out here for too long. Rintarou tells him it’s fine, he doesn’t want to move. And that Osamu’s standing out here too.
Osamu’s not wrong. It is chilly outside, and they may catch a cold, but the centimeters of space between them feels so very warm in this moment. And so Rintarou basks in it.
Rin turns to him, eyes now close enough to read. Osamu looks at him like he’s his most cherished memory, and Rintarou thinks he understands.
Maybe there will be many more lifetimes, but there is only this one they are living in, so Rin reaches out his hand and cradles Osamu’s face. Up close, everything is realer, warm flesh and rosy skin. He brushes his thumb along his cheek and memorizes the contours of his face again, and Osamu traces Rintarou’s jaw with sturdy fingers before holding his face too. The gesture is warm and comforting and Rin’s eyes slip close and he angles his head.
Lips press softly against his, new but familiar. Nothing changes. The rain still falls, and it is still cold. They hold each other like they’re made of water vapor, like they may disappear again.
I know you, I remember parts of you, Rintarou thinks.
When they part, just enough to breathe in fresh air, Rintarou tells him.
“I missed you.”
“I’ve been here all along,” Osamu says, half smiling.
“I know, but if I say I missed you, it feels like I'm coming home now.”
“Then, I’ve missed you too.”
“You can tell me, about us. We have the rest of this lifetime to remember, and to make new things for us to remember. And if I forget, you always find me. And I’ll always find you. And it will rain.”
It is a promise.
“And it will rain,” Osamu repeats.
This time, when the rain clears, they’re still here.